To Heal the World
by Tara Walden
Summary: A woman gets a job as a therapist for a very secret group of individuals at the UN.  What she doesn't realize is that she will be sorting through issues that have existed for centuries. She may as well say goodbye to her sanity now...
1. And So It Begins

**This is an idea I have been pondering for sometime and I just finally decided I had to write it before it drove me mad. So, this is another story that with have a history base to it and have psychological analysis to the best of my abilities. If something is wrong or a stretch and you know this because you work in the field or study it, please tell me. I am mostly using my own experience here.**

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><p>Prologue: And So It Begins<p>

Well… Today is my first day working here, but I suppose first I should explain where and what _here_ is.

_Where_ consists of the United Nations in Geneva. _What_ consists of my job as a psychological therapist. Apparently, a rather large group of people who work here need a therapist on hand twenty-four seven, for whatever reason. As of yet, I do not know the patients or the reason for needing a therapist always present; I will be briefed on the specifics of my job in a few hours. All I know thus far is what I have divined on my own. The future patients must be a good deal important because I had to go through rather grueling and incessant questioning by the FBI and various equivalents to from other countries—some of which I needed a translator to understand and be able to answer the questions. I am fairly certain that these agencies now know more about my life than _I _do.

Anyway, I arrive several hours early today in order to get my office put together. In all honesty, the space is somewhat small, not that I am complaining. I am just not sure if all of my stuff will fit once it is out of boxes. All of my CDs, books, pictures, and other useful items I often put up and display will indeed be hard-pressed to fit.

One might ask why all of the things I have mentioned I find to need in my office. It is my thought that they are indispensible tools to my practice. These objects serve a dual purpose in actuality. The first is to put patients at ease; I have found that allowing them to see my interests and to ask questions about things that catch their eye tends to make them less tense, less guarded, which allows me to more easily talk with them. The second reason is just as important as the first. Often patients will comment on a particular CD, book, or picture I have in my office. This is a very simple way to get to know them. The preferences typically help me to establish several things about them from the start, but at the least they help to establish a basis for frame of mind and personality. To gauge their own interests is like peering through a window into who they are.

Glancing at the antique grandfather clock against the wall near the door, I note that I have almost three hours to get my office as I want it to be before the person who had hired me over the phone will be filling me in on the exact job description. He will also be telling me for whom the counseling is and should be giving me a file on all of them containing basic facts.

With a small smile, I realize I must get to work if I wish to have my office in tip-top shape. First impressions are most important, after all. Therefore, I set to work immediately, starting with my plethora of books, many of them antique, all but a few leather-bound. Within an hour of climbing up and down an old-style English bookcase ladder, I have all of my books properly on the built in, floor to ceiling, wall-to-wall bookshelves.

My next objective is my CD collection, which is quickly sorted by genre and then alphabetical order. This music collection of mine ranges from Mozart to the Beatles to the Black-Eyed Peas and nearly everything in-between, excluding heavy metal, screamo, rap, and extreme forms of country.

Allowing myself, after nearly two hours, to stand, straighten out my back and to stretch, I glance around the room that is slowly falling into place.

Facing the door, the wall of bookshelves is to the right. The wall opposite the door has several wall-mounted shelves and a TV. In front of this wall, there is a leather sofa and matching arm chairs on either side of the sofa, a coffee table centered in the middle. Still facing the door, to the left sits my desk, I find it an uncommon advantage with meetings that I am the first to see them rather than the other way around as it gives me a brief moment to analyze. In front of my desk are two wingback armchairs, large enough in the back to make it nigh impossible that someone at the door might see who is sitting in them. Behind the desk are more wall-mounted shelves.

I use my remaining hour to hang artwork and photography as well as place different busts, models, and other such items on the various shelves. Everything on one shelf has to be somehow related to one another and all of the various works of art have to be as straight as I can get them.

I am just about to turn my attention to my desk when there is a knock on my door. I straighten my skirt, blouse, and glasses then walk over to the door and touch the handle.

Following the intake and release of one calm, steady breath, I ready myself, open the door, and so it begins.

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><p><strong>Hope you enjoyed. The chapters after this will get longer, but this is the prologue.<strong>

**~Kanae~**


	2. Getting Acquainted

**Okay. So I warned that these following chapters would be longer. This one was ten pages on Word document. Haha. Sorry. I don't normally type/write in huge chunks like this, but I honestly think it will read better without division. If it is too lengthy for one chapter, tell me and I will try to shorten subsequent ones. :)**

**Hope you enjoy. :)**

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><p><strong>Chapter 1: Getting Acquainted<strong>

Opening the door fully reveals a somewhat tall, slim man with clear complexion and tanned skin. He also has a closely trimmed, dark beard, obviously well maintained. His black, almost obsidian eyes peer down at me through glasses from a moderate height difference, probably placing him at around 6'0" to my 5'6".

His frame is solid without the bulkiness of over-trained muscles but do not think I mean him weak. There is a way in which he stands that seems to dissuade the careful observer from this faulty notion. He appears strong and muscled, but in the way that a swimmer might be as opposed to a wrestler.

As if to further prove the matter of strength, he is carrying what seems to be a rather large file box.

Upon looking back up to meet his gaze, I find that he looks to have been scrutinizing me also, trying to see, perhaps, what else he might discover of me from my appearance.

After a brief moment of silence, he smiles, shifts the box to one arm, and offers his right hand, which I grasp firmly if not slightly reluctantly. Some part of my brain also wonders how he is holding that file box with one arm…

"Good morning, miss," he greets, an almost baritone voice reaching my ears. "May I presume you to be Miss Abigail Ellsworth?"

"You may, and the presumption would be correct," I smile politely, tucking a stray strand of reddish brown hair behind my ear and then straightening up completely.

"My name is Luke Anderson. I'm the man you spoke to on the phone."

"It's very nice to meet you, Mr. Anderson. Would you like to come into my office and sit down?"

"Yes. Thank you."

I step aside and allow him entrance to the room. He walks in, and I seem to think that he examines the room for a moment. As I shut the door, he then looks to me, and my suspicion is confirmed.

"I see you have been hard at work already. Other than the furniture and the boxes, the room was empty this morning when I came to check that everything was ready for you today."

"If today is also the first day I'll be seeing my patients, then I want everything to look as it should."

He gives me a nod, seemingly pleased with my answer and then takes a seat in the armchair to the left of the sofa, the box now on his lap. I then move to occupy the remaining chair by the coffee table, ready to listen to whatever he will tell me.

"Well," he begins, resting his arms on the box. "I am certain you are somewhat curious about the pains that were taken to insure that you were qualified and cleared for this job, yes?"

"A little," I reply, severely downplaying the extent of my curiosity. I am extraordinarily curious by nature, and therefore I had spent many a night since all of this began pondering this very subject.

An amused chuckle follows my response accompanied by a slight raise of his right eyebrow.

"Only a little?" he asks, clearly not buying it. "Well, most people in your position wouldn't be sleeping too well, but that is beside the point. I have, in this box, all the files that you will need in order to acquaint yourself with all of your new patients. Are you curious now?"

It is my turn now to raise an eyebrow. "Perhaps slightly more so."

"In all honesty, I cannot tell if you are or not, but I suppose that is irrelevant," he replies before setting the box on the table and opening the lid. "All of the files contained within are strictly confidential and have been translated from their various origin languages into English in an effort to make it possible for you to read without hindrance."

"That actually leads to something about which I've been wondering," I begin, shifting slightly forward in my chair. "I am almost fluent in Spanish; I know some Japanese, very little French, and even less German and Dutch, to say nothing at all of the multiple thousands of other languages represented in this building. How am I to communicate with my patients?"

With an amused—knowing?—smile, Mr. Anderson nods. "They'll know how to talk to you, Ms. Ellsworth. They are not your average individuals. The English may not be perfect, but it'll be fairly close. You should have no trouble communicating with them, unless, of course, one of them develops a case of stubbornness, which is not entirely unlikely I must warn you. Besides this possibility, though, you will not have any trouble with language barriers."

I find this idea a little odd and difficult to grasp. How would _all_ of them know English? I could understand more developed countries, such as Germany, that may require their students to learn several different languages, but even representatives from less developed countries? The notion does seem slightly far-fetched, but…

"You are positive there will be no issue?"

"Very."

"But, how is that even possible?"

"As I said, Ms. Ellsworth, they are not your average individuals," he reiterates before suddenly glancing at his wristwatch and standing. "It seems your first appointment will be in one hour. The first round of appointments will probably last for a few months because the first round was scheduled for everyone; it should help you to get acquainted with any who may schedule their own appointment at a later date or _be_ scheduled. Now, if you have no more questions, I will leave you to studying over these files. Do you have any other questions?"

_Yes. Why did you start being evasive when I pressed the language issue?_

"Not at the moment," I smile, standing also.

He nods. "Very well. Then I shall take my leave. I will return to check on you either this evening after all of your appointments scheduled for today or tomorrow before any of them start, if I am able."

"Understood."

Thus spoken, he walks to the door and I follow, stepping slightly ahead of him to open the door. He gives me another nod and steps out of my office, but before taking another step, he pauses. Turning only slightly to glance over his shoulder, he looks at me with an impish gleam in his eyes and a somewhat mischievous smirk. "Good luck, Ms. Ellsworth. You will need it."

With that, he continues his lengthy stride and is soon around the corner and out of my sight. It is then that I step back into my office and shut the door, isolating me with my thoughts and my files, which would win the majority of the hour of time is still up for debate.

Nonetheless, I return to the armchair I had previously occupied and pull the rather heavy, full file box over to me.

On the very top of everything is a calendar, according to its cover, and I wonder if this is my schedule of appointments Mr. Anderson had mentioned. Removing it from the box, I open it to today's date and, just as I had suspected, there is a list and time schedule for the appointments. Because it is a preliminary appointment and it truly is a first chance to 'get acquainted' as my prior visitor had put it, it would last only about forty to forty-five minutes. My first appointment would be at 8:00. I would have three appointments in the morning, and then an hour long lunch break, followed by six more appointments. That would mean I would be leaving for home at around 20:00.

This worked out in my mind, I then look at the schedule for today once more and pull from the box only the files of those I will be seeing today. This done, I move to my desk, files and calendar in hand. Upon sitting, I shuffle the files into order of visit and begin to read.

In reading and studying the files, committing them to memory, I become so engrossed that the first chime of the grandfather clock startles me. By the third chime, my heart rate is regulated once more and I return the files to the crate. It is only a few moments past the last chime, silence filling the room, that I hear a solid, confident knock on the door.

I glance briefly at the file box and judge that there is no way I can lift it, so I merely shut the lid and go to the door. Once more straightening my shirt and making certain that my hair is in order, I open the door.

On the other side is a man of about 5'10" with a slim build. He has blond hair, which—though obviously well taken care of—sticks out in nearly all directions. He sports a tan blazer and dark brown vest accompanied by a tie with tan slacks and brown penny loafers.

"I am terribly sorry. I was trying to arrive on time but that bloody American git was bothering me about nonsensical '_heroes_' and global warming. I do so apologize," the man says in a rush, British accent quite prevalent.

"May I safely call you Mr. Kirkland?" I question, smiling.

Almost immediately, he seems to relax a little as he nods.

"My name is indeed Arthur Kirkland. You must be Ms. Ellsworth," he says as we shake hands.

"That I am. If you'll just step into my office, please," I reply as I step to one side.

"Of course. Thank you. Finally someone in this blasted place with manners. People these days seem to have no respect or manners. I am very glad to have finally stumbled across someone who still practices the nigh lost art."

He, after thus voicing his thoughts, walks into the room and glances around. I quietly shut the door behind him and turn my full attention to him as his eyes wander around the room, systematically taking note of everything.

"Mr. Kirkland," I say and he immediately turns to look at me. "Where would you like to sit, at the desk or at the sitting area? It does not matter to me."

"Well," he begins, glancing between the two options. "I suppose the desk and chairs would be best."

"Very well. Go ahead and take a seat, please."

As he does so, I make a mental note that he seems to prefer functionality over comfort, probably has a strong work ethic. He also seems very formal and very… well…. 'British'. This is not in the slightest a bad thing, only different.

I walk to my desk and, once seated, look at Mr. Kirkland once more, to which he seems compelled to make an attempt at conversation.

"This space has seen quite an improvement, I see," he nods his approbation as he glances around once more.

"Has it?"

"Yes, quite. It was still a storage room two weeks ago when we were first told of a psychiatric therapist being hired. I must say, your taste in décor is impressive, especially for one as young as yourself. May I presume that all of this is from your prior office space?" he asks, emerald eyes turning their gaze from the room to me, and suddenly—though I cannot be much younger than him based upon his appearance—I feel as though I am as a small child once more being looked upon by an adult. His stare is not uncomfortable, only very… odd. Truly there is no other way to describe it… Just… odd.

"Yes," I answer at last, realizing he is awaiting my answer. "All of this is from my last office before I came here."

"Just as I suspected," he smiles, seemingly pleased with his deduction. "May I also guess that you are a rather avid reader? I saw several titles in your collection here on the wall behind me that I have not seen in quite some time. You must have searched quite diligently for them."

"You would be correct again, Mr. Kirkland," I answer readily, my smile becoming less pretending. "I do very much enjoy reading."

"Should I also suppose by this collection that you are a reader of the old world sort in that you prefer actual books to these newfangled electronics?"

"That I do. I prefer to feel the pages and the ink, and you? Do you enjoy reading?"

His eyes seem to brighten a little as he nods. "Quite. In my home, I have an entire room that is a library."

"Really?"

"Oh, yes. It's been quite some time since I last counted. I haven't the slightest idea how many I have in my collection to date."

"Have they been passed down in your family?"

At this question, he suddenly stiffens a little, and he tries to force a sense of calm. "Something like that."

Even though his reaction intrigues me—is family a sore topic?—I refrain from asking any further on the matter. I do not wish to, on the first visit, 'frighten' him away or make him so very defensive as to be impossible on which to get a read. Therefore, rather than push the matter, I simply nod and smile.

"I wager your library must truly be something worth seeing, Mr. Kirkland."

Whether in an attempt to move forward or whether truthfully making the suggestion I am uncertain, but he appears to relax once more and even tries a smile. "Well, if ever you journey to London, I would be more than willing to show you the library since you are so fond of literature."

I must admit, though, that the offer does take me a little by surprise, especially because he has just met me and knows very little, I should think, about who I am. I seem to think somewhere beyond a somewhat austere persona lies a warmer personality. It is not necessarily trying to get out, but perhaps, 'there for the discovery' would be the more apt term.

"Well, thank you very much, Mr. Kirkland. I assure you the offer is quite appealing, though, I do not know when I will ever make it to London. It is a very kind offer all the same," I answer, putting on one of my brightest smiles.

In return, he seems to relax just a little further and he responds, "If you _are_ ever to find yourself in London by some chance, do not hesitate to call. I am quite certain they left you all of our home phone numbers, yes?"

"They did," I nod.

"Well then, it should not be a problem. If I find, in coming days, that you have been to London and not called upon me as guide and guard, I shall be most offended, Ms. Ellsworth," he says with so straight a face that I almost believe whole-heartedly that he would be mortally wounded, had it not been for a rather mischievous glimmer in his eyes.

"I will be certain to call you then," I laugh sincerely, before glancing at the clock. Twenty-five more minutes remain. I should probably at least start to ask him questions, though, this conversation has been most informative on its own. "So, Mr. Kirkland, is there anything particular you would like to mention to me about yourself?"

"Well," he begins, seeming to have fallen deep into thought. "Nothing that I can think of really."

"Alright. That's perfectly alright. Let's talk about when you arrived then, shall we? You seemed agitated about something. What was it?"

"It was because I was running slightly behind," says the man who got here barely after the last chime that told it was eight o'clock, the time for when his meeting was scheduled. Definitely schedule oriented. "I was on time until that Yank decided he absolutely must, _at that exact moment_ inform me of his brilliant plan to stop global warming. It was completely batty. I mean, nearly stark raving mad! Where does he come up with such insanity?"

I am so very lost about what the 'insanity' is, so I find I must ask.

"What insanity?"

"He was talking about creating a genetically altered hero to protect the Earth from global warming by batting away the UV rays with his super strength. Can you believe it? It is the second time this month, and do you know what today's date is?"

"The first of September."

"_Exactly_. He is always so blasted childish, despite how grown-up and strong he wants everyone to think he is," Mr. Kirkland scowls.

"Who is this 'he'? You called him a 'Yank'. Do you mean he is the American representative of your group?"

"Yes, he is," he answers before his eyes widen almost comically. "I am terribly sorry. I hope I haven't offended you with the term 'Yank'. I have it on reliable authority that you are American."

At this, I laugh briefly. "Mr. Kirkland, I am from Massachusetts. Technically I am a Yankee, so I assure you, I am not in the least offended."

"Massachusetts, you say?" he questions, a distant tone to his voice and a faraway look in his eyes. "Where in Massachusetts?"

"Boston," I reply, unsure what has so affected him.

My answer, however innocent it seems to me, produces an even more pronounced reaction as his expression becomes almost pained.

"Oh," is all he responds, eyes dropping to the top of my desk.

"Why do you ask, Mr. Kirkland?"

"Oh, I just… I had a rather difficult falling out with someone there."

"I'm sorry to hear that," I respond, genuinely feeling sorry for him. Clearly the falling out had hurt him deeply. Knowing that the vulnerability he is currently displaying is quite obviously rare, I find myself wary of saying anything else for fear of shutting him down, but I know that I must at least try. "Would you like to talk about it?"

Just as I feared, whatever memory or thought had held him so temporarily transfixed and made him forget his obviously carefully maintained façade is abandoned and banished from his mind. His countenance becomes once more composed—a mask—and his jaw, neck, and shoulders stiffen.

"No. I would not," is his response, his voice colder than I had yet heard it.

I nod briefly before glancing at the clock. Only ten more minutes remain and seeing that he is now to answer carefully and guardedly, to ask anything more would be a waste of my time and his. For this reason, I give him as warm a smile as I can possibly give.

"Mr. Kirkland, I find that I have no more questions for you today, so unless you do wish to tell me something more or discuss anything else with me, I think you may leave early. I don't want to keep you here for no reason."

He in turn gives me a stiff nod and stands. I rise to my feet also and walk with him to the door. Reaching it, I open it for him, then offer my hand which he shakes.

"Ms. Ellsworth, it has been very nice to meet you."

"Likewise, Mr. Kirkland."

A final nod and the Englishman exits the room, his steady step sounding lightly on the tile floor of the hall. I listen until the footsteps have vanished, and then I close the door. Quietly, I move to the sofa and sit down, allowing myself time to mull over my thoughts and observations. A notepad and pen in my hand, I begin writing my thoughts on the meeting.

Mr. Kirkland is indeed a true English gentleman from what I have first observed. Stiff, trying to be guarded, but somewhere below, he seems like he is genuinely a good person. Based upon his behavior toward me, he seems to wish to reach out to people, but also seems wary of doing so.

Clearly, he has had a rough time with people. Perhaps he has dealt with betrayal or a deep sense of disappointment and now finds it difficult to invest emotionally or mentally in people. That would explain it rather well, but I must have more information to establish it for fact. For now, however, I must only write my observations while they are still fresh in my mind.

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><p><strong>And so you have it. The first 'representative' she has met. :)<strong>

**Love to get everyone's feedback. I don't write for reviews, but they do help me a lot with knowing what my readers like. ^_^**

**~Kanae~**


	3. It's 'My' Not 'Me'

**Well, it took me a little longer than I had hoped, but I finally got this chapter typed up. **

**Before we get to the chapter, though, I just want to say thank you all so much for the alerts and faves. I must give a **_**special**_** thanks to those who reviewed. It really does help me to read what you guys think about my writing. It helps me to continue entertaining you all, and not just myself. ^_^**

**Hope you enjoy.**

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><p><strong>Chapter 2: It's 'my' not 'me'!<strong>

I allow myself to fall so deeply into my thoughts as I continue writing that, in all honesty, I jump when a soft knock breaks the silence.

"Just a moment," I call, capping my pen and closing my notepad. Quickly setting the items on my desk, I sprint to the door and open it.

A man with golden blond hair and almost purple eyes looks down at me from a height of maybe 5'11", 6'0", somewhere in this height range; his slight slouch—almost as if he is folding in on himself—makes it difficult to know for certain.

"Um… You can see me… right?" comes the surprisingly quiet voice.

Normally, I would have attributed this question to sarcasm of flippancy, but the tone in which it is asked seems to rule this out almost immediately. This man is earnestly concerned over whether or not I can see him. Why?

In hopes of allaying his fears, I smile and extend my hand to him in greeting. "Of course. You must be Mr. Williams, correct?"

"Oh. Y-yes, I am," he responds as shakes my hand with his right, completely encompassing it—are my hands really that small?—and he reaches up to adjust his glasses with his left. He seems genuinely surprised that, not only do I see him, but I also know his name. Maybe he is ignored often? Abandonment issues? Perhaps he is even forgotten. I will have to explore this further.

"Well, my name is Abigail Ellsworth. It is very nice to meet you, Mr. Williams. Would you like to come inside?"

A small nod follows my question. "Y-yes, please."

I immediately step aside and allow him entrance, closing the door behind him. I turn to look at him and see he is staring at me almost as if he is unsure of what to do next, and a quick glance shows me that he is fidgeting with the sleeves of his tan winter coat.

"So, Mr. Williams, where would you like to sit, the sitting area or in one of the chairs by my desk?"

"Um… W-well…" he nearly whispers, glancing between the two options. Even though his gaze lingers on the sitting area just slightly longer, he looks at me, smiles, and replies, "Whichever you would prefer."

A polite answer, but one that seems to also show an aversion to putting out, displeasing, or offending others. Possibly also shows that he is more concerned with other people's comfort and welfare than his own.

"In that case, why don't we go to the sitting area?"

There is an almost imperceptible sigh—of relief?—as he nods, "Alright."

The two of us then walk to the small area and I sit on the left side of the sofa while he hesitatingly sits on the right side.

"Mr. Williams. How are you today?"

"Oh, I'm fine. How are you?" he asks nervously.

"I'm quite well actually. Thank you for asking," I reply giving him a small smile, trying my best to put him at ease.

He seems to relax if only a little and attempts a smile of his own. "Anytime."

"How has your day been so far?"

"Um…. It's b-been okay…" he stutters. "L-like m-m-most days, I guess…"

Based upon the increased sleeve fidgeting, downward directed gaze, and stuttering, 'most days' must not be all that great, but I need _him_ to tell me that instead of me conjecturing it.

"How do most days go?"

He winces almost unnoticeably. I find already that most of his gestures seems to be so minute that it would be nearly impossible for just the everyday person to catch. Fortunately, however, I have always been a people watcher and the training I went through when I first decided to pursue this job has only further honed the skill.

"W-well, I, um… I…"

I see that clearly, 'most days' _do_ upset him, and make a mental note that he may be susceptible to low days, maybe even depression. Definitely an observation worth noting as early as possible.

Seeing that he is getting rather flustered—his face is turning a shade meant only for tomatoes and new stop signs—I place a gentle hand over one of his that was previously employed fidgeting with his watchband. The action clearly takes him by surprise, and his startled gaze snaps back upwards to focus on my face. It is then that I realize he has gotten upset enough that his odd violet-tinted blue eyes are becoming misty.

"Mr. Williams," I say softly, maintaining eye contact as well as keeping my hand on his, "it's okay to talk to me about anything. What bothers you? What upsets you? Things that you don't think you can or want to tell anyone else? I am here to listen to _you_, to talk to _you_. Anything you say to me, stays _with me_. I promise, alright? I am here for _you_."

Just as it looks like the tears might spill over, he looks down, blond bangs obstructing by view of his face. I simply sit, watching before I finally move from my hand simply overlapping to actually holding his hand. I honestly can't keep from feeling for him. Obviously, for this to be the first meeting, he must have really needed to talk to someone, perhaps for some time now.

Without looking up at me, he takes in a shuddery breath and what he says next is barely above a whisper.

"N-no one's ever s-s-said something like th-that to m-me before…"

To some extent, this statement surprises me, but at the same time, it does not surprise me at all. Clearly, this is a deeply rooted loneliness he feels, a deep-seeded idea that he is alone and must carry on as such.

"Well, I am saying it to you now, and I _always_ mean what I say."

Several more minutes tick by in silence only broken by an occasional quiet sniffle. How could someone be so lonely or hurt and _no one_ notice? _**No.**_ Someone must have noticed this. That changes the questions to, 'Why had no one reached out to him?'

I am brought from my musings, however, by slight pressure returned to my hand, and the blond finally looks up at me.

"Ms. Ellsworth?"

"You can call me Abigail or Abby if you would like."

"Ms. Abby," he says, gracing me with a sincere smile this time, "Thank you."

"Not a problem," I reply, giving his hand a gentle squeeze before pulling back.

"So, you want to hear about my day, eh?"

"If you would like to share anything."

"Well, I guess this morning was okay. I didn't forget my keys, and I got to the meeting on time… But then Alfred called me—I mean my! He called _my_ country that I represent Canadia, not Canada..." he answers. I make a note of the odd nervousness brought about by a slip of 'me' in place of 'my'. An odd reaction, but not really pertinent at the moment as he continues. "And then, when I sat down… I-Ivan s-s-sat on me."

At this statement, my eyebrow raises, "He _sat_ on you?"

A nod follows my question, "Yes."

"Did he stand back up later?"

"W-well, after the m-meeting."

_He's not kidding… _"He sat on you the _entire _meeting?"

"Y-yes…" he responds, starting to blush a little again.

_What on Earth?_ "And no one said anything?"

"N-n-no. They d-didn't even realize I was 'missing'. They n-never do," he sighs.

" 'They never do'? This happens often?"

"Almost every m-meeting…"

_Every meeting?_ "Have you ever told… Ivan to go to his own seat?"

His eyes widen drastically and become somewhat fearful. "Oh! N-n-no! I've never d-done that!"

"Why?" I question, curious about the strong reaction.

Sounding close to tears once more, he looks at me almost incredulously. "B-because Ivan i-is… H-he's… H-h-have y-you not s-seen him y-y-yet?"

"… No?"

"W-w-well you'll s-see then why I haven't…"

"Alright…" I say, glancing at the clock. Two minutes? Where did the time go? "Well, Mr. Williams, I—"

"I don't m-mean to interrupt, but I'll be c-c-calling you by your first name, it would be unfair to make you call me by my last. B-besides, Matthew or Matt is a little easier to say than Mr. Williams, eh?" he laughs softly, almost like the sound of snowfall.

"What would you prefer, Matthew or Matt?"

"Matt would be fine, Ms. Abby."

"That's what I shall call you then," I reply before standing, him doing the same. "Well, Mr. Matt, I have quite enjoyed talking with you, and I'm here anytime you would like to talk. Good _or_ bad, alright?"

"Okay. Thank you."

With an exchanged smile, we both walk to the door and upon reaching it, he opens the door, we shake hands, and he leaves, giving me a small wave before turning the corner.

Reclosing the door, I sigh and walk to my desk to make more notes.

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><p><strong>Thanks again for reading. ^_^<strong>

**~Kanae~**


	4. Anything but Boring

**Sorry that it's been a little while. I've been too sick, busy, or hurting to type much. I decided last week that I would slip out on the pavement and hurt my back. Don't think it's anything major but it sure is sore. -sigh- I don't know why I'm such a clutz. **

**Anyway, though it is a little behind, here is the third chapter. :) Hope it is is enjoyed.**

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><p><strong>Chapter 3: Anything but Boring<strong>

Eighteen minutes. That is how long I have been staring at the door.Never mind the five other minutes I had used to completely straighten the top of my desk. Twenty-eight minutes, I have been waiting. There remaining is roughly seventeen minutes remaining for the session, and no. one. is. here. except. _me_.

If there is one thing that I cannot stand, it is blatant tardiness. Five or ten minutes is, at the least, understandable; nearly _thirty_ minutes is most certainly _not_ understandable, nor is it _tolerable_ in my mind. It is disrespectful and entirely rude. It demonstrates that you have no concern _whatsoever_ for the one with whom you have an appointment. It also supplies a _sparkling_ first outline of one's character. The tardy person is either inconsiderate or irresponsible, neither of which impress me in the slightest.

Finally, with literally five minutes remaining of the scheduled appointment, there is a knock at the door. Rather irritably, I march to the door and open it to see a tall, stocky blond man with glasses and a brown leather bomber jacket with a star on the front left breast.

"Mr. Jones," I say, a mere allusion of my true annoyance conveyed in my tone. "_You_ are—"

"Late, I know! Dude, I am sorry but I was trying to go through this boring paperwork and whatever, but then I fell asleep and then I overslept a little and when I woke up, that creepy ass Commie started talking to me, and we got in an argument, and he just kept grinning like the freak he is, and Iggy had to pull me away, and he's—"

"Right here," a familiar British accent supplies even as the tall blond is shoved over to bring the owner of the voice into view. "Ms. Ellsworth, I am most sorry that this blasted git has kept you waiting all this time. He told me yesterday about his appointment time, and when I saw him in the hallway about to get into school yard fisticuffs with Ivan, I pulled him away and brought him straight here to you. He ought to be ashamed for making you waste so much time but I can nearly assure you that he is not," Mr. Kirkland scowls, directing a reproachful stare at Mr. Jones.

It is almost like the stare a parent might give an errant child being scowled. In all honesty, that's even what his tone and body language seems to imply. That is not possible, of course, as they look nearly the same age—despite difference in behavior—but that is the image all the same.

"I am, too!" exclaims Mr. Jones, quite nearly deafening me. Unfortunately, I have a feeling that this is not even so far above his normal speaking voice… How much louder could he be if he were to try to do so?

"It is not right to tell such outlandish tales as _you_ being ashamed," Mr. Kirkland scoffs. "_You_ have never been ashamed of _anything_ for even one second of your life. Admit it!"

"That's 'cause I'm the hero!" yells the taller of the tow, striking a 'heroic' pose, thumbs up and bright smile included.

This seems to only further irritates the Englishman. "You are not always a hero, Alfred! Need I remind you of—"

"DUDE! NOT COOL! I AM SO THE HERO ALL THE TIME!"

As the argument escalates, I merely sigh and step past them just as another man is walking down the hallway.

His appearance is most unusual compared to those I have seen thus far. Hair so blond that it looks almost white seems to be styled into careful disorder. His skin is as white as copy paper—perhaps lighter even—and his frame is somewhat tall and lanky. Looking closely at his face as he approaches, he seems to be almost frowning, his eyes directed at the floor as if deep in thought.

Who is he?

Whether somehow sensing the focused attention being given him or perhaps only turning to look at the two bickering, he turns his head to look in my general direction. Upon scanning the scene, his eyes find me and then meet my own searching eyes.

Red. Red like blood, but distant, distorted somehow. He stops and holds my gaze, standing as a statue. For a moment, we only stare. I feel as though he is analyzing me, almost as I had scrutinized him. His crimson eyes fix me with such a focused stare that I have to fight a most uncharacteristic urge to fidget. He just seems so odd, almost as if he is out of place.

Who _is_ he?

Finally, I realize I must say something or the silent intensity may very well prompt me to hasten back to my safe office and close the door to shield me from the unnerving garnet gaze.

"Hello," I offer, making sure to smile.

His eyes widen ever-so-slightly and his head tilts just barely to the right even as a pearly, mischievous smirk spreads across his face.

"Guten tag, Fraulein," he replies. He is quite clearly a native speaker of German, and it's even evident as he continues in English. "I see that you have met Al and Artie. You know, I really wouldn't want to be you. Haha. I almost feel badly for you."

So speaking, he gives me a slight nod and continues walking.

As he walks away and until he turns the corner, I find myself simply staring at him. This is not so base a stare as what many women might direct at him—he is quite unusually handsome; it is not lust in my stare but pure curiosity. He just seems so very… odd. Truly there is no other word that I can think of in the present moment.

"Ve~ Why are England and America so loud all of the time?" whines a somewhat higher toned voice. Looking to my left, I see a shorter man with reddish-brown short cut hair with a random curl looping out to the left.

Immediately, the arguing men stop and Mr. Kirkland starts to blink and stutter.

"H-he , of course by th-that, means the r-r-representatives for England and America!"

" 'course!" exclaims the American, laughing nervously. " 'cause, dude, there's no way we could actually be England and America. I mean, people can't be countries!"

"Belt up, you git!"

"My belt _is_ fastened, Iggy! But why were you looking at my pants, anyway?"

"WHAT IS WRONG WITH YOU? THAT IS NOT WHAT I MEANT!"

Once more tuning out the racket, I simply look to the man who had started this anew and gestures for him to walk past them and into my office. The man smiles happily and does as I had instructed. With a final glance at the two outside my office, I shut the door, sigh, and turn to the man.

"Ciao!" he grins. "My name is Feliciano Vargas! You're Signorina Ellsworth, right?"

"Why, yes I am."

He smiles brightly before speaking once more. "You can call me Feliciano or Feli or even Italy, I don't care which."

_Italy? Why would he go by his country name? And outside he called the two by their country names, too… Perhaps they are nicknames?_

Nonetheless, his smile is very sincere and I can't help but lighten up a little at the sight of it.

"Very well, Signor Feliciano. You may call me Abigail or Abby."

"Abby~! That's a pretty name!"

The man continues to smile happily, and I must say it is a great relief from the tensions of prior appointments. I even find myself relaxing a little.

"Well, thank you. Feliciano is a nice name, too," I flash a smile before asking him the same question I had asked all the others. "Would you like to sit at one of the chairs in front of my desk or at the sitting area?"

Without any sign of hesitation or indecision, the bubbly young man points to the sitting area. "That looks more comfortable, right, Signorina Abby?"

"I suppose so," I reply fighting the urge to grin again.

Obviously, Mr. Vargas prefers comfort to formality.

With this decision made, he practically skips to the sofa and plops down whereas I walk over and sit carefully, straightening my skirt as I do so. When I look up at him from this, he is looking happily around the room, paying particular attention to the statuettes, paintings, and pictures I had put up this morning. One particular wall catches his attention and he jumps up from the sofa to approach the wall, once more skipping.

"Ve~! Signor da Vinci's _Mona Lisa_! And Signor Van Gogh's _Starry Night_! OH! You have a print of Signor Monet's _Waterlilies_, too!"

As he continues to identify more framed prints, postcards, posters, et cetera on the wall with the enthusiasm a child might give to the toy aisle in a store, I stand and walk to his side.

"So I gather that you enjoy art, yes?"

"Si!" he replies, quite nearly beaming. "I like all kinds of art! What about you?"

"Yes. These are just a few of my favorites from the different museums to which I've been."

"Ve~! Really?"

"Yes. Van Gogh and Monet are probably my favorite artists, to be honest."

"I like Signor Van Gogh, too! And Signor da Vinci!"

Most of the visit is spent like this with the brunet drifting around the room, something different always catching his eye, and I allow him to carry on in this manner.

Do not think me to have wasted the odd visit, however. While I _do_ find this particular appointment more enjoyable than most of the others, I am _still_ analyzing.

Mr. Vargas seems to be a very simple, happy individual. He enjoys art, writing, and music, but particularly art. And food, specifically any kind of pasta. Within the first ten minutes, he has already offered to prepare a real Italian dinner for me and to write down recipes for me, all because I had agreed with him about Italian food being some of the best food in the history of the world. Truly, he seems a very warm, caring, optimistic individual.

Now, only three minutes prior to the appointment concluding, I find myself at ease for the first time in months, the time it had been since I first applied for this job.

"Signor Feliciano?" I say at last, two minutes remaining.

"Si?"

"I must say I have quite enjoyed your visit today."

"Ve~! I did, too!" he exclaims before looking slightly crestfallen. "I have to leave now, don't I?

"Unfortunately, but you can come talk to me anytime that I don't have another appointment with someone else, alright?" I offer trying to placate the child-like Italian.

He brightens substantially at this. "Si! And don't forget that I'm going to cook some real Italian food for you sometime, okay, Signorina Abby?"

I smile. "Of course."

"Well," he begins. " I guess I should go then. I shouldn't keep Germany waiting. He would get upset or think I abandoned him again, and he's my best friend in the whole wide world so I don't want him to think that. I'll see you later, Signorina Abby."

And then he moves toward me and does the typical Italian goodbye—a kiss to both sides of the face. More than a little caught off guard, I blush slightly, but I _do_ know that it is only saying goodbye. It is only very, very unexpected.

Moving back again, he gives me a final smile, walks to the door, opens it, and leaves. I am then left once more alone in my office.

Thus far, my day has been anything but boring, and it is only just now time for lunch… What will my next five appointments hold in store?

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><p><strong>And there you have Italy. Along with some intrigue. I wonder why he called them by their country names... Hmmmmm... ;)<strong>

Hope to have the next chapter up very soon. ^_^

~Kanae~


	5. Curiouser and Curiouser

**Well, two chapters in ONE day? That is nigh unheard of for me. But nonetheless, here it is. ^_^**

**Thanks for the reviews on the last chapter. Hope you guys like this installment, too. **

**Couple of notes beforehand though. This chapter contains another language that I am learning. If there are sections that are incorrect and you know this for a fact, please inform me and I will correct it. I do not think there are any errors because I tried to stay inside of my knowledge base, but who knows? Anyway, the other language will be in the sentence as normal type, but if it is not the entire sentence, there will be an asterisk before it. The translation will be given directly following that section so that there is not scrolling to the bottom to find what it means. I hope this format works, but I've never attempted to really incorporate other languages in a story before, but I am hoping to with this one. So if you all like this format of utilizing other languages and the translation, I will continue in this manner, if not, I will have to figure something else out.**

**Thanks. ^_^**

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><p><strong>Chapter 4: Curiouser and Curiouser<strong>

After my lunch, I return to my office fifteen minutes before my next appointment and sit at my desk listening to one of my Maroon 5 mix CDs. One might wonder at a therapist listening to _Maroon 5_ of all bands in her office on her first day, but that is until one is informed that I have the presence of mind to use headphones. As I blare Adam Levine singing _Moves Like Jagger_, I begin to review the files for the next five appointments.

At a little more than four minutes before my first appointment following lunch, I put the files away once more and mentally prepare.

It is three minutes after the appointment time that I begin to hear noise. At first, it is an indistinct roar, but it quickly becomes coherent… Perhaps it had been better that it had not...

"Dammit! Why are you always following me around you damn tomato bastardo!"

"Pero, Lovi~! You're mi tomate pequeño!"

"Creepy ass pervert! Get off of me! Quit hugging me, bastardo!" At this, I stand and walk to my door.

"Lovi~ That's not nice! Por qué you are so mean to me? ¡Tú eres como mi niño!"

"What does that even mean, you creepy bastardo?"

Opening my door to see a tall, thin man with dark brown hair hugging a shorter man with dark reddish brown hair, I answer, "He said that you are like his child, sir."

At this, both men freeze. The younger man gapes at me a minute, but the older smiles happily.

"¿Usted habla español, señorita?" (**_You speak Spanish, miss?_**)

"Más o menos, señor. Yo estoy estudiando la idioma. En mi opinion, español es una idioma más bella que inglés." (**_More or less, sir. I am studying the language. In my opinion, Spanish is a language more beautiful than English._**)

His green eyes light up excitedly as he exclaims, "¡Sí! ¡Gracias, señorita! ¡Usted es muy simpatica!" (**_Yes! Thank you, miss! You are very kind!_**)

For whatever reason, the statement that I not only am learning Spanish, but that I think it is a beautiful language had made him almost ridiculously happy. Maybe he possesses a strong national pride?

"Usted es el representante de España, ¿sí? ¿Señor Carriedo?" (**_You are the representative of Spain, yes? Mr. Carriedo?_**)

"¡Sí! Yo soy el representante de España," he hesitates a moment and seems to look at me carefully before speaking again. "¿Te conozco?" (**_Yes! I am the representative of Spain. Do I know you?_**)

I shake my head immediately. "No. Trabajo aquí ahora." (**_No. I work here now._**)

"Ah, yo veo." (**_Ah, I see._**)

"Would you two at least speak in a language I understand?" the younger man says at last, quite nearly pouting.

"Aww. Lo siento, Lovi~ It is not often I find someone willing to speak *mi idioma conmigo." (**_*my language with me._**)

Looking to the Italian man, I smile. "You must be the representative for South Italy, Signor Vargas, si?"

"Si, Signorina. I am… But how do _you_ know that…?"

"Oh! Lovi! She must be the therapist! I did get us there without getting lost!" Señor Carriedo shouts, clapping his hands happily before pointing to the plaque beside my door. "You are Señorita Ellsworth, ¿si?"

"Yes, that I am," I reply, a little taken aback by such a warm greeting. Most people are not so happy to have found the therapist's office…

Nonetheless, I hold my hand out to shake his hand, but instead, he takes my hand lightly and kisses the back of it, nearly bowing simultaneously. I try to fight back a blush, judging by how hot my face feels, probably in vain. This is a common custom in his country—just as the kiss on each cheek is for Italy—but this is honestly the first time I had ever encountered such a greeting.

"Mucho gusto, señorita," he smiles upon straightening completely and releasing my hand. "Me llamo Antonio Fernandez Carriedo and this cute tomate," he indicates the shorter man, "es Lovino Vargas." (**_It's a pleasure to meet you, miss…. My name is.._**)

"It is very nice to meet both of you, but I believe that my first appointment is with you, Señor Vargas."

"Si," he answers simply, before glaring at Señor Carriedo. " I would have come alone, but this tomate bastardo followed me…"

I suddenly cannot help but wonder why Signor Vargas seems to so violently dislike Señor Carriedo, but instead of allowing my thoughts to get away with me, I merely nod.

"Well then, Signor Vargas, if you will step inside, and Señor Carriedo, I will see you following his appointment. *¿Con permiso?" (***_With your permission?_**)

"*Por supuesto," he laughs, a very light, carefree sound. He then turns to his 'friend'. "Now, Lovi, be nice to the señorita and answer her questions, okay?" (***_By all means…_**)

"I know to do that! You don't have to tell me, dammit!" is the reply given as he storms into my office, face as red as…

"¡Un tomate! Aha~ When Lovi gets mad, he looks just like un tomate," the Spanish man smiles broadly. "Pues… I have matter I must attend to, so… ¡hasta luego!" (**_Well…. See you later!_**)

"With a wave, he practically skips down the hallway and around the corner, humming some sort of upbeat tune that sounds vaguely familiar. Had it not been for the slight distortion from the tile floor and high ceilings present in the hall, I probably could have identified the song I realize with a sigh into the quiet.

Quiet, that is, until music suddenly blares from my office accompanied by a very loud, startled cry.

I quickly dodge into my office and shut the door. Looking to my desk, I locate the source of the sound. Signor Vargas, whom I assumed _had_ seated himself in one of the chairs at my desk—unfortunately I had unknowingly thrown my headphones over the desk in getting up—had snagged them somehow, yanking them from the headphone jack, therefore my CD player is blasting _Misery_ at the highest volume.

In one swift movement, I cross the distance from the door to my desk and jab the stop button, immediately plunging the room into silence.

My eyes then scan the room to attempt location of my current patient. Not finding him, I simply decide to try the easiest solution.

"Signor Vargas?" I call.

"H-here," he answers as he peeks out from the other side of my desk. Somehow, he must have jumped my desk and ended up _under_ it. An anxiety disorder perhaps?

"Signor Vargas," I repeat, keeping my voice calm and steady, "I apologize for the scare; I was listening to my music before you arrived and forgot to stop it."

He stands slowly and immediately attempts a scowl.

"I w-wasn't s-s-scared! I was j-just… trying to see where your desk was made! C-can't find a tag or plaque anywhere!"

"Ah, I see," I reply trying to refrain from laughter as I suspect it would not be well-received. Going along with the ruse, I smile instead. "Well, if that is the case, it is an old family heirloom from England. That's where my family is from, and we came to America not too long before the Revolutionary War. We were not spies, because we didn't pass information to the British, but we were Loyalists, or Tories as the American Patriots termed it. Of course, it wasn't long before we counted ourselves Americans and not British, I am told. … Oh, I'm sorry. I just reeled off the family history to you, didn't I? I apologize if I bored you."

Sometimes, I do forget that not everyone is as history-oriented as I am. Honestly, how many people must I bore before I realize this as a fact and simply leave it be?

In response, I get no more than a nod and so I decide to move onward with the meeting.

"Well, Signor Vargas. Where would you prefer to sit, here or at the sitting area?"

He seems to quickly weigh the options—as well as warily eye my stereo—before pointing to the sofa. "There."

"Very well."

Thus decided, we walk to the sofa and sit down, he on one side, I on the other.

"Well, Signor Vargas—"

I am interrupted by a slight mumble that is largely unintelligible.

"I'm sorry, Signor Vargas. I didn't catch what you said. Could you repeat it, *per favore?" (***_please?_**_)_

He looks down and I would almost _swear_ that his face is red.

"Y-you can c-call me L-lovino…"

"Lovino?" I question. He nods, still looking down. I smile and continue. "It's very nice to meet you, Signor Lovino. My name, as I said, is Abigail, but feel free to call me Abby, alright?"

Now, I verify the redness as it spreads to the tops of his ears. Why is he blushing? Is he embarrassed? But, why would he be embarrassed? … Maybe he's shy? He wasn't around Señor Carriedo, though… In fact, he was loud… Maybe… Maybe he is only shy around women?

After a moment, he nods and answers, "S-si."

"Alright. Well then. Let's start with today. How has your day been?"

"Fine…" he replies, staring at his knees, head tilted down.

"So what have you been doing?" I ask, hoping for some substantiation to 'Fine'.

"Nothing…"

Unfortunately, most of the session consists of questions from me and one word responses. This trend continues even as we both stand and walk to the door.

"Well, Signor Lovino, if at any point you would like to get in touch with me, I have been informed that my numbers were distributed to all of you, therefore, simply call."

For the fiftieth time, he merely nods and eyes the door, clearly ready to leave.

With a small sigh, I open the door and step aside, allowing him to exit.

"Ciao," he says quickly before leaving, not even giving me the chance to reply.

Closing the door, I cannot help but think of what a meeting _that _had been, and I pray that there wouldn't be too many more as awkward as that one had been…

Before I have even taken a step toward my desk, there is a knock at the door. I glance at the clock and see it is another two or three minutes before my next appointment, but…

Opening the door once more, I am met with a familiar face.

"Buenas tardes, señorita," greets Señor Carriedo. "Lo siento, pero I thought it would be better to be early instead of late." (**_Good evening, miss. I am sorry but…_**)

I nod to him gratefully. "It is much appreciated, I assure you, Señor Carriedo."

"Ah, señorita, no one calls me Señor Carriedo. Me llamo Antonio," he corrects gently, a warm smile present. (**_My name is/I am called Antonio._**)

"Very well, Señor Antonio," I reply. "Are you ready for your appointment?"

"Sí, and, señorita, Antonio is just fine," he replies with a laugh. "The 'señor' is not necessary, I promise."

I smile and nod. "Very well, _Antonio_. Then, I am not señorita. My name is Abby. If you'll step inside, *por favor." (***_please._**)

I step to the side and allow him entrance to the room and watch his light and relaxed stride as he walks past me and inside the space. Obviously, he is perfectly comfortable and at ease.

As I shut the door, he turns to me and asks, "¿Dónde nos quieres estar sentados?" (**_Where you want us to be seated? _**)

Seeing as he seems most comfortable and happy to be speaking his native language, I decide to test my use of it further as well.

"Pues, Antonio, tú puedes estar sentado en la sofá o en una silla delante de mi escritorio. La opción es tuyo." (**_Well, Antonio, you can be seated on the sofa or a chair in front of my writing desk. The choice is yours._**)

"¿La opción es mío? Pues… Creo que la sofa es más cómoda que las sillas. ¿Estás de acuerdo?" (**_The choice is mine? Well… I think that the sofa is more comfortable than the chairs. You agree?_**)

I smile. "Sí. Estoy de acuerdo." (**_Yes. I agree._**)

At this, we both seat ourselves on opposite ends of the sofa, though not so far apart as had been the distance between Signor Vargas and I. He had almost been sitting on the arm of the sofa rather than the cushion…

"Well, Abby. I must say I am surprised that you speak español. There are so many countries represented here, but many of them either do not speak español or choose not to speak it with me."

"They choose not to speak it with you?" I ask, slightly perplexed.

"Ah~ Sí. Es still some bad blood between España and most other español-speaking nations…" the man replies, a seemingly uncharacteristic line forming between furrowed brows, his eyes downcast, yet just as quickly as it has appeared—like a cloud skirting over the sun and then moving—it vanishes, making me wonder if I had really seen it at all. "Pero, that is no matter."

The smile is back in place, and suddenly I begin to doubt the genuineness of it. Is it partially pretense?

"Well then, I'm happy to be here to speak with you, Antonio."

At this, his smile seems to brighten and turn into something much more sincere, reaching his eyes once more. "Sí, es nice to have someone to talk to that understands what I am saying, pero, to make it más fácil on you, I will try to speak mostly inglés in our appointments."

"Thank you for being so considerate," I say, chuckling lightly before remembering the question that had been bothering me since this morning. "Antonio. You don't have to answer and don't take this the wrong way, but Mr. Anderson, the man who hired me here, told me that anyone who comes to see me will be able to speak English. How is this possible?"

I take careful note of his reaction. He shifts nervously in his seat, eyes darting quickly left, right, up, and then back to me.

"Pues… Ah, Abby, what did Mr. Anderson tell you?"

_Stalling? Trying to keep some sort of story straight? Why have they both reacted like they would rather not discuss the matter?_

"Oh, he just said that you all are 'not your average individuals'," I reply trying my best to sound only innocently curious, unconcerned.

It works, I realize, as he relaxes back into the cushions ever-so-slightly.

"Aha. I see. Pues, he merely meant that, as representatives, we have had, ah, special training, and we, many of us, know several different languages. English is a very beneficial language to learn porque we interact with many**_ *_**inglés hablantes in our line of work. Much as how many *inglés hablantes of America must learn a second language in school so that they may interact with people outside of America." (***_English speakers_**)

The explanation is simple, believable, and maybe even partially true, but there is a hesitancy in his voice, a careful look to his eyes that makes me wonder… He's thinking _very_ carefully over his words, but why? Not wanting to make him more cautious, I smile disarmingly and continue.

"Well, that does make sense. I bet that's a lot of work, but it's nice to know that you all take your jobs so seriously as to go to such lengths."

He merely smiles—forced—and nods.

"Sí, we are _very_ serious about our responsibilities to our people."

"That is commendable. Most people don't even understand responsibility anymore. That all of you would be so diligent is astonishing."

Once more, he nods, before shifting with a nervous laugh. "Ah, Abby, I am certain this is *muy aburrida. Why do we not speak of something else? Surely there are more interesting topics than how representatives do their jobs, ¿sí?" (***_very boring_**)

I can see how much he wishes to move from this particular topic and—while I still do not understand why this is such a sensitive matter—I realize that any attempt to inquire further will only make him more and more uncomfortable. Just as with those appointments and patients prior, I decide this should not be pressed.

"Very well," I nod. "Is there anything you would prefer to discuss?"

"Pues…" he begins, his face taking on a look of intense concentration. After a moment, his face lights up once more. "Last week, I harvested my garden at mi casa with Lovi's help!"

"Really? You have a garden?"

"¡Sí!" he beams happily.

"What do you grow?"

"Lots and lots of los tomates! Oh, y los pimientos."

"Tomatoes and peppers?"

"Sí. Every año, Lovi y yo harvest *el jardín grande. This year, there were muchos tomates y pimientos of all kinds! There were **otras cosas, tambien, pero those are our favoritos." (*the big garden ** other things also, but…)

"Yours and Signor Vargas' favorites?"

"Sí," he nods, but then looks slightly downcast again. "Lovi… He and I do not get to spend mucho tiempo together anymore… We are both muy busy and our economies keep us in poor health more often than not…"

_Did he just misspeak? 'Our economies keep us in poor health'? Surely he means keep our countries_ _in poor health…. Perhaps it is just his English… ? But now that I'm looking… He does look a little under the weather…_

Instead of pondering this further or possibly embarrassing him by asking, I decide to simply move forward.

"Maybe everything will work out soon and you two can spend more time together?"

"*Pues… No sé… Sometimes I think that…" he suddenly pauses, as if not wanting to give voice to whatever thought troubles him, gaze shifting to the floor. (**_*Well… I don't know…_**)

"You think that… ?" I prompt.

He sighs before looking at me once more, and in his eyes seems to be a sadness that could stop the world spinning.

"Sometimes I think… That Lovi does not _want_ to be around me… Like maybe he is glad that we do not often see each other… I think of him like my child almost… But…"

His gaze falls again, sending his bangs over his eyes, shielding them from my searching gaze. Then, it seems as though a streak falls from behind his bangs—a tear?—yet just as I would have reached for his hand, he lifts his head again, sunny smile firmly fixed in place once more.

"Ah, I am just being silly, I suppose," he chuckles, but I can hear how forced is the sound.

As much as I wish I could say something more, try to draw him back out from behind what is clearly a façade, I know that attempting to corner him into talking will ruin any chance of it. From what I have thus seen, Señor Carriedo is one who does not wish for others to see through him.

He uses his smile and seemingly carefree attitude to cloak his true feelings, himself. Whether this is to keep others happy or to protect himself—much like Mr. Kirkland does—or both, I cannot yet ascertain. However, he does _want_ to stay hidden, that much I _know_.

"Well," I say at last, glancing at the clock. "I think that's probably all that we have time for today."

"Bueno," he nods and stands before catching himself and nearly looking panicked. "Oh! Abby! I did not mean that as it sounded! *¡Te prometo! It is only that ** estoy muy cansado…" (***_I promise you! _** ****_I am very tired…_**)

I laugh, allowing for another smile as I stand to my feet.

"Antonio, I assure you. I am not in the least offended; I understand about being tired," I reply, chuckling slightly. "I hope you will be able to find somewhere to talk a nice, _long_ siesta, eh?"

"Oh, ¡sí!" he beams, nodding enthusiastically and looking relieved.

Holding my hand out to him to shake, I am once again staving off a blush as he takes it, lifts it to his lips, and presses a soft kiss to my knuckles. Good Lord, do these gentlemen not realize what they are doing to a poor American girl not used to all of this?

Upon releasing my hand—thankfully, I believe my blush is mostly gone—he smiles. "It has been muy bueno to meet you."

"*Igualmente," I nod. "**No olvides, you can come back anytime you want to talk with me or call if that is easier. As long as I do not have an appointment, I will be more than happy to talk." (***_Likewise_** ****_Don't forget…_**)

"Sí. Gracias, Abby."

With this, we both walk to the door, I open it, and he departs, a final adios and wave sent to me before he walks around the corner.

A sigh and I am back in my office, the door closed.

The next appointment is _very_ soon and I have notes to write. _Several _notes.

Things just get curiouser and curiouser.

* * *

><p><strong>Well, I guess my first question is what do you think about the other language-translation method? Is it alright? Does anyone have a better idea? <strong>

**Also, I know that I went with a little different perspective on Spain, but as the story continues, you all may find that my interpretation of characters is an interesting one. This is not to say that I intend to make them OOC, only that I intend to interpret them as something deeper than just in the anime where you see one side. But I will interpret FROM what I've seen in the anime so, don't be terribly distressed. I have no intentions of butchering anyone or going off on wild tangents with them. :) I would love to get feedback on this, though. **

**Can't wait to hear from you all, and thanks for reading.**

**~Kanae~**


	6. When Things Go Awry

**Wow... I am really on a roll. I'm actually putting another chapter out the day after I posted two others... Seriously, this is ridiculously fast for me...**

**Anyway, thanks for all the feedback the last two chapters. I'm still not sure how to fix the language issue because I really do want to actually incorporate the languages, but I don't want to make reading it awful for all of you, so... I guess I'll have to think about it. Thankfully, there's really not any need for it this chapter. ^_^**

**Hope you enjoy. :)**

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><p><strong>Chapter 5: When Things Go Awry<strong>

The next knock at the door brought perhaps the most interesting patient yet...

I had opened my door to see a tall, slim man with shoulder length blond hair and blue eyes. His clothes are not as pristine as most of the others—his shirt is untucked and unbuttoned to slightly below his collarbone, and he wears no tie—but he is quite obviously meticulous with his looks. His hair is perfectly brushed and the stubble on his chin and jaw line is clearly maintained to that specific length.

He had greeted me with a cheery, 'Bonjour, mademoiselle!', we had gone through the introductions, and—after I asked—he decided we would sit on the sofa…

Which is where it had all very quickly gone to hell in a hand basket. A very old, dry, wooden hand basket.

What do I mean by this?

While I normally try to keep my patients comfortable, there is, I now find, a point of being much _too_ comfortable. This is evidenced by the blond man sitting flush up against my side with his arm around my shoulders speaking in French. I don't know much French, but the phrase, "Voulez-vous coucher avec moi ce soir?" seems to be in there somewhere and I am _NOT_ his Lady Marmalade.

Still trying to reign in my temper, I sigh, and, without looking at him, warn, "Monsieur Bonnefoy. S'il vous plaît, remove your arm from my shoulders. Now."

"But, mademoiselle, I am only—"

"Non. Remove your arm from my shoulders and please scoot away from me."

With an exaggerated sigh, as if this were simply_ killing_ him, he does as I ask—I shall assume his fingers grazing my chest as he removes his hand is a _complete_ accident—and we are now seated at a much more appropriate and respectable distance.

"Now, Monsieur Bonnefoy—"

"S'il vous plaît! Not so formal! Call me Francis, ma cherie."

With nearly a sick feeling in the pit of my stomach, I correct myself. "Monsieur Francis. I believe we need to discuss who _I_ am and why _I_ am here. _I_ am here for you to _talk_ to me… English so that I understand entirely what you are saying. Second. I am most certainly _not_ here to be flirted with nor am I here to be your personal call girl. I assure you, I have no interest in being such."

Hoping to make this _abundantly_ clear, though I know what it will dredge up, I raise my left hand, gold band catching the light from its place on my ring finger.

"Ah, I see~! The mademoiselle is the madame! She experiences l'amour without my help! How wonderful for you~! And your husband, he must be so lucky a man for you to love him enough to resist the advances of l'amour itself~ Honhonhonhonhonhonhon~~"

I wince slightly even as I wonder, mentally, at how arrogant he must be to consider himself 'l'amour itself' but I simply nod.

"This ring symbolizes many good times with my husband, and I will thank you to respect that."

"But, of course! France is the country of l'amour! How could I do less, mon ami?" he questions, sounding truly wounded. "Of what do you think me capable? I could never wrong two people _truly_ in love~!"

In response, I merely return my hand to my lap and clear my throat. "Yes, well… Enough about my life. We're here to talk about yours. How was your day today?"

The rest of the appointment goes without a hitch. Clearly, the Frenchman had meant what he said about respecting my ring and its meaning.

It is not long, in fact, before he bids me 'au revoir' at the door and leaves. I must admit, I end the appointment with a considerably higher opinion of him than when the appointment began forty-five minutes ago. He truly seems to be a caring, warm person, just maybe sometimes a little _too_ much of each at once…

No sooner are my notes jotted down than I once more hear faint yelling getting increasingly louder, and I pray that it simply passes my door…

… But it doesn't.

"I don' need a blasted shrink t' tell me about me self! I know plenty all on my own!" yells a loud female voice, thick Irish brogue present.

"Erin," begins an exasperated voice that I already know quite well. "_All_ of us have to go to see her, but she really is quite nice. There is no reason to be afraid!"

"Afraid? _AFRAID_? Where d'ye get off sayin' I'm afraid? I am the representative o' the Republic of Ireland. I'm no' afraid o' anything, ye bloo'y Brit!"

"Now, _Erin_, that was entirely uncalled for. Please, calm! You're going to make a fool of yourself!"

At this point, the racket is directly in front of my door so I simply walk over and open it just as the woman yells, "A fool, am I? Why I—"

It is then that both seem to register my presence and they both freeze. Mr. Kirkland—looking a little less immaculate than I last had seen him—has a much smaller red-haired woman, I would say only barely five foot tall, held at her waist above the ground. She, until noticing me, had been quite forcibly kicking her heels back into the man's unguarded shins and had, only upon seeing me, stopped.

Almost instantaneously, the pair returns to their sense. The Englishman hurriedly, with ever-reddening face, sets the woman back to her feet, and she immediately straightens out her clothes that had become slightly disheveled during their… disagreement.

Trying to dispense with some of the awkwardness, I smile.

"Hello, Mr. Kirkland. It seems that at this rate, I may be seeing you quite often. What, three times today?"

"Well, I… err… um…" he stammers a moment before at last returning to his usual articulate self. "Perhaps. I know many people."

At this the woman snorts. "Oh, I'd say ye've _known_ quite a few in your days."

_Really now… ? 'Known'? Well then…. That's…_

"Erin! Th-that's not s-something you just… and you… !"

Once more, Mr. Kirkland is reduced to a blushing and stuttering mess, which only causes the small woman to smirk broadly.

"Now, Arthur. Don't get too flustered. I've got to be a-talkin' to Ms. Ellsworth here, and ye need to get back to work again. Maybe after this appointment we can do something about _that_."

Though I hadn't known it to be possible, Mr. Kirkland's face gets redder still until it is an odd shade of purplish-red that I didn't know was possible for a human.

"E-Erin! Th-that was e-entirely inap-ppropriate!"

"Whate'er ye say, Arthur," she replies, rolling her eyes before smiling warmly at him. "Now. Try not t' get into any fight with Francis. Try to get along wi' everyone else unless they do not want to get along, in which case ye have my full permission to beat the livin' daylights outta whoe'er ye have to, as long as _ye_ come back alright. D'ya understand me?"

"Y-yes! I understand! I'm not a child," he snorts, crossing his arms and doing his best to keep a scowl.

"Tha's quite a comfort t' me seein' as if ye were, I couldn't do this now, could I?"

"Do wha— Mmmph!"

His questions is very suddenly cut short by the Irishwoman yanking him down by his shirt collar and putting to him such a lip lock as I have never before witnessed. In truth, it is more than a little red-faced that I turn to look back into my office, giving the two at least _some_ privacy, but not before seeing the 'prim and proper' Englishman start to return the kiss.

_Ohhhhhh myyyyyyyyyy._

I cannot help but be more than a little confused by the two. First, I hear them yelling all the way down the hallway… Then the woman was teasing him… Then she was concerned… And now _this_? Are they actually together or… ?

What _seems _an eternity later, they must have stopped kissing because the instigator of it walks past me and into my office, smirking. I follow, only glancing at Mr. Kirkland as I shut the door. Yes, he seems as though he may very well count the seconds until this appointment finishes…

Upon the door shutting, I turn to the other occupant of the room.

"Hello. You must be Ms. McLoughlin, yes?"

She replies with a warm smile. "Aye. An' ye must be Ms. Ellsworth. 'at's a lovely name by the way."

"Oh, um… Thank you," I smile. "Well… Where would you prefer to sit, Ms. McLoughlin? In a chair in front of my desk or in the sitting area?"

"It seems t' me that the sitting area would be more comfortable, aye?"

I nod. "Yes, I believe you are right."

Without further conversation, we both walk to the sofa and sit. Just as I have situated myself, Ms. McLoughlin speaks again.

"I hope we haven't scared ye, seein' that out there in the hallway. Arthur and I… We've known each other for a long time. It's… It's complicated," she laughs, a sound like one might imagine of faeries. "I'm sure ye can see that, aye?"

"Yes, I suppose I can," I nod.

_Complicated may be the __only__ word…_

Even as I observe her, though, her expression changes from one of mischief and joviality to something softer, warmer.

"But don' mind my teasin' him. He really hasn't _known_ very many, and none other than myself while we've been together," she smiles softly. "He's a faithful man. A very _good_ man, and those are very rare now-a-days so I appreciate him… I just like terrorizin' him every now and again. He needs somethin' t' get that old English heartrate up."

Just like that, the mischief returns as an odd glimmer in her _very_ green eyes. Once again, I merely nod my acquiescence.

Both in manner and appearance, she does remind me something of a faerie or an elf. Her fiery red hair seems to curl wildly as it chooses, ringlets of nearly every size cascading over her shoulders and partially down her back, not restrained in the slightest. Her skin is a pale sort of tan and her face is completely devoid of make-up, yet still quite attractive. What is perhaps most faerie-like, however, are her eyes that seem as mercurial as her temperament, changing slightly with every shift of her mood.

"So, Ms. McLoughlin. How are you today?"

"Oh, I'm quite well, an' please, call me Erin. 'Ms. McLoughlin' just sounds so formal an' stuffy an' _English_—I bet Arthur has ye call him Mr. Kirkland—so I'll not want ye a-callin' me that. Just 'Erin' is fine," she replies, laughing once more.

"Very well then. You may call me Abigail or Abby. Whichever. Has your day gone well?"

She leans back slightly, crosses her right leg over the left, rights her floor-length skirt, and then clasps her hands around her knee.

"Well, Abby, my day has been that which it is normally. I hung out with Aidan, the representative of Northern Ireland. I pestered the representative of Scotland until he threatened me with a golf club… Hmm… Scared the Frenchy into jumpin' out th' window—don't worry, t'was only the first floor, as I wouldn't have done it otherwise—and then gave Arthur a hard time about comin' here. That's not offense t' ye—I only wanted him to walk here with me—and ye do seem like a nice person, so I hope I didn't offend.

"An' then o' course, I stole that _lovely_ kiss before I came in here, so my day has gone quite well. Honestly, I'm feelin' lucky," she says before leaning in slightly and dropping her volume. "Between us girls, I'll be really lucky if I can manage to get a certain Englishman to leave all tha' paperwork and come t' bed at a decent hour. It so rarely happens that he'll come t' bed before two or three in the marn that t'would be great luck indeed t'were it to happen."

A wink accompanies the statement, and I honestly cannot help but to chuckle a little. Something about this woman just puts one at ease, I think. Tension in my shoulders and neck, which had been secretly lingering since the appointment with Monsieur Bonnefoy, seems to evaporate completely, leaving nothing but a sense of calm.

So relaxed am I, in fact, that without even thinking, I reply, "I understand what you mean."

Almost instantly, I want to just kick myself. Why had I contributed that? It was already enough to show Monsieur Bonnefoy my ring, and now this…

"D'ya?" she questions, tilting her head ever-so-slightly before catching sight of my wedding band. Immediately, her eyes seem to brighten. "Oh, I see~ Your husband the same then?"

"Um… Yes… He, um, used to work a job that kept him up well past midnight."

"Used to? Does he not work it anymore?"

"Ah… No. He doesn't work that job anymore. Hasn't in five years."

"What does he do now?" she continues, obviously curious. I am sure she is well-intentioned, but honestly, I just wish we could move forward.

"He stays peaceful now… Lies around."

"Really?"

Clearly, she is surprised.

"Oh, yes. He has had a busy life and needed rest more than he needed anything else."

"So ye bring home th' only paycheck? Had ye a family t' support?"

"A son… Our son, Nathaniel…"

"Ah, Nathaniel. T'is a fine name," she smiles brightly. "Who picked it?"

"My husband and I both chose it together."

_When had this turned around on me?_

"So did they come here with ye then? I heard ye were from America, an' no offense but ye do sound very American."

"No… They're far away."

"Oh, I'm sorry…. I don't know what I'd do without Arthur around all the time, as much as sometimes I'd like nothin' better than to just strangle the man. But it's nice havin' him around all the same, so I just can't help but think your husband and child being away from ye would be difficult…"

"Yes, it is," I say and remain silent a moment before clearing my throat once more. "Well, what else would you like to talk about?"

"Well, I can't think of anything more, Abby. An' honestly, my mind is startin' t' wander a little to a certain impatient man waitin' for this meeting t' be over," she laughs lightly.

"If you have nothing more to discuss, then I suppose we're done for today. Looks like that's ten minutes less that he'll have to wait."

At this, she grins brightly and stands.

"Thank ye, Abby. I'll see ye again sometime soon, I'm sure."

I stand as well and put a smile onto my face.

"It was very nice to meet you, Erin. I hope you have a great day."

"The same t' ye."

Then, she crosses to the door, opens it, and leaves, allowing me the briefest glimpse of the very man she was hoping to see, out in the hall waiting on her.

_What a lucky woman…_ I think before walking to my desk and sitting to take my notes. However, the plans of mice and of men often go awry.

As tears spring unbidden to my eyes, obscuring my view of the desk top, I know my notes will not be taken, regardless of intent. Thus, I simply turn on my stereo—Nat King Cole seems most appropriate at the moment—and I cry.

* * *

><p><strong>Okay, so, obviously USUK is not gonna happen here, and honestly, my stories tend to lean more towards straight. Nothing against yaoi, so to speak, it's just not my thing I guess. So I suppose I should just go ahead and warn you here, if you have any slash favorites or anything, it's really probably not going to show up with anyone except maybe with characters like Poland and France (who knows which way he swings) because... Well, that doesn't need any explanation does it? Haha.<strong>

**Anyway, that said, those of you who aren't absolutely going to chase me with stakes and pitchforks and torches for it not being USUK or FRUK, what do you think of Ireland?**

**Well, I shall try to get the next chapter up soon, so I hope you enjoyed this one. Again, I would ****_love_**** feedback because it helps me a lot with my writing and with knowing what you guys like and don't. **

**Thanks for reading. ^_^**

**~Kanae~**


	7. Everything is Wonderful

**Another chapter is ready and I just want to say thank you SO much to my reviewers! This is the best feedback that I have ever gotten with any of my stories thus far and it has been VERY helpful. Thank you, thank you, thank you!**

**I would very much like to give special thanks to Italia Deu for your marvellously insightful review and also to yaoiforever666 for asking so many good questions! Both of your reviews made me smile and I thank you from the bottom of my heart. ^_^**

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><p><strong>Chapter 6: Everything is <strong>_**Wonderful**_

It is only upon loud knocking at the door startling me awake that I realize I had fallen asleep. Jumping up from my chair, I start toward the door then hesitate and quickly sprint to my desk, remove a small mirror, and check my makeup.

Yes, as I suspected. My mascara looks _wonderful_. Pulling out a napkin from my purse under the desk, I very quickly begin cleaning it up at least a little.

The loud rapping at the door intensifies and I call out, "One moment, please!"

Even to me, my voice sounds tired, not to mention just slightly scratchy. Even more **_wonderful_**.

The knocking discontinues, but I would almost swear that I can hear the faint _tap tap tap tap tap_ of a foot hitting the tile floor outside repeatedly and with great gusto.

_How long have I slept?_

Glancing at the clock as I begin to reapply my mascara, I almost wince. Assuming that the person outside is my next patient and that they were on time, it is ten minutes that have been wasted. How long have they been knocking? What a great first impression!

_Won. der. ful._

Mascara reapplied, I dash to the door and quite nearly throw it open to see a most irritated man who immediately begins yelling. "I HAVE BEEN HERE FOR TEN MINUTES WAITING! WHAT WERE YOU DOING? SLEEPI…" he trails off suddenly upon looking me in the eyes.

_Oh, good Lord… Did I not clean all of it off in my rush?_

"Herr Zwingli. I am terribly sorry. My music was playing and I was—"

"Are… Are you alright?" he interrupts, eyes narrowing. It does not seem to be annoyance now, but concern.

"I-I'm fine," I nod, briefly glancing at my feet before looking up once more and seeing that he has not been convinced. "Would you like to come inside?"

He nods and I step back so that he may enter. Silently, he does so; I then close the door and turn to him.

"Herr Zwingli, where would you prefer to sit, the sitting area or in one of those chairs in front of my desk?"

"The chairs at your desk," he answers immediately with a decisive nod toward them.

"Very well," I reply, returning to my chair behind my desk as he moves to occupy one of the seats in front.

I take this opportunity to hurriedly observe him.

Serious expression. Blue eyes. Long-ish blond hair not quite reaching his shoulders. Neatly cut. White beret. Pristine uniform.

Clearly, he is well-ordered and probably is all about business. Yet, there is also something nearly overbearing in his expression and posture that evokes a feeling of control, power, and discipline.

Once he has seated himself, I move my eyes to his face once more, when I notice his eyes directed at my desk top, eyebrows slightly furrowed. I follow his line of sight to see the mascara smeared paper towel. I quickly swipe it off my desk and into the waste bin, and I am fairly certain I must be blushing slightly because my face feels a little hot.

"Herr Zwingli," I begin, desperately trying to avert any questions from him about the paper towel. "I truly apologize for not reaching the door sooner but I—"

"It's fine, Frau Ellsworth," he interrupts, bluntly cutting of my words. "There is no need for apology. Let us simply continue forward."

I nod and then smile gratefully.

"Very well then, Herr Zwingli. We'll start with how are you today?"

" I was fine until that *_schwein_started bothering me and hitting on Lilli," he answers, nearly fuming already. (Swiss: *pig/swine).

"To which, um, moron are you referring and who is Lilli?"

"Oh… Sorry. .. Lilli is my little sister. The moron is Pru— Gilbert Beilschmidt, the representative of East Germany."

"East Germany? Why should there still be a representative for East Germany?" I question, more than a little puzzled.

He snorts, obviously finding some sort of humor in my question. "As if _I_ know. Everyone wonders how and why he's still around. Not like anyone cares."

"It seems like a waste of resources since Germany is a unified state now…"

"Exactly!" he exclaims, fist lightly hitting the arm of his chair before faltering. "… But you shouldn't say that or even ask about it in front of the representative for West Germany. He'll get upset…"

"Oh… Well, um… That's good to know, I suppose," I reply, making a mental note to avoid that topic when speaking to the West German representative. "Is there any _particular_ reason?"

"Because the East German representative is his older brother and, for some reason, _he's_ glad that he's still around."

"Oh… Alright… So, then other than dealing with, um, Herr Beilschmidt, how has your day been?"

"Well, Japan— '_s _representative wouldn't speak up to tell America that—America's representative that the hero-worshipping moron is a failure at _life_ and that a genetically engineered superhero will _not_ protect the world from global warming. EVER."

_First note, what is with the stammering and corrections?_

_Second note, AGAIN with the global warming hero plan… ?_

"Really now?"

"_YES._ And then England and France's representatives started fighting until Ireland's representative stood up and… um… and… well, she stopped the fight and, um, convinced England's representative to leave…" he explains, blushing a little. After seeing the two in action, I honestly cannot blame him for it… But I quickly refocus as he shakes his head and continues. "And then Turkey and Greece's representatives were fighting with pens and letter openers and Russia's representative was terrorizing the Latvian representative… And finally Germany…'s representative yelled at everyone to sit down and shut up, which made both Italian representatives freak out. One hid behind Germany, and the other hid behind that air-headed Spaniard."

_The representatives for Italy had hidden behind Germany's representative and Spain's representative? Feliciano Vargas said that 'Germany' is his best friend, so should it be assumed that he hid behind him? Then… That would mean that **Lovino **Vargashad hidden behind Señor Carriedo… But… How is that possible? I thought he hates him… ?_

Instead of further pondering this new information as I would like to, I simply file it away and return to my current patient.

"Well… That sounds stressful."

"It is! And Lilli wonders why I go to the firing range everyday with my shotguns."

_Shotgun**s**? As in plural?_

"Oh. You enjoy shooting?" I ask, suddenly just a little uncomfortable.

He nods once.

"What kind of targets do you shoot? Still or live targets?"

"Live targets are my preference. If it moves, it's more challenging."

"Ah. Should I assume that you are a good marksman then?"

"Of course!" he exclaims, straightening even further his already erect posture. "I can hit anything you point out to me!"

"Well," I begin, more than a little surprised. "That _is_ quite impressive."

He suddenly blushes, just barely pink. "W-well, I just practice a lot."

"Practice only gets you so far, Herr Zwingli. The rest is skill and talent."

This only darkens his blush to a rather light red.

"W-well, I… I suppose you're right."

"So what else would you like to discuss then? You mentioned you have a sister, if I am not mistaken."

"Yes, um, Lilli. She's the representative for Liechtenstein."

_Why are there so many siblings? And across country borders? How? And come to think of it, they're all so young… Most look younger than me even, and I'm only thirty-one… How can they look younger and supposedly have been given the specialized training and whatnot before they took these jobs?_

I quickly force myself once more from my musings and nod.

"Liechtenstein you say? Isn't that the country actually under the protection of Switzerland?"

"Yes, it is."

"Hmmm… Well that is interesting. Pardon my asking, but how is it that the two of you are representatives for two different countries?"

"Well, I, uh… That is to say that… Um… It's…. She's my adopted sister," he manages at last. "She's actually from Liechtenstein, not Switzerland, and I watch over her."

"Oh, I see then. That's nice. How long has she been your sister?"

"A long time. Since she was very small…"

"That's sweet. What is she like?"

"W-well… She's… She's quiet… and shy most of the time…" he says as he begins to look a little more relaxed. It is obvious that she is a soft spot in his armor, so to speak. "She likes my drawings that I make for her… and she follows me around a lot… Um… She cut her hair once to look more like mine, and she kept getting mistaken for a boy so I let her pick out a ribbon… tie… thing for her hair… And she made some sleep clothes for me completely from start to finish…"

At this, I cannot keep from smiling warmly. "It sounds as though you two are quite close and take good care of each other."

This time he does not respond, but seems to blush to the tops of his ears.

"Well, is there anything else you wish to speak of? Anything is alright."

"No… But… Is it alright with you if I sit in here until the appointment is over time-wise? It's kind of quiet in here, and I don't think I can deal with anymore of those idiots today…"

Again, my smile spreads across my face. "Why, of course you can. In fact, you can either continue to sit in the chair you currently occupy, or you can even go sit over in the sitting area and relax a little. I'll just be sitting here at my desk writing notes and filling out paperwork."

He nods once more and, almost hesitantly, stands and walks to the sofa. He stares at it for a moment before slowly sitting.

Just as I had told him, I pull out my notepad once more and begin writing both his and my prior patient's notes.

Ms. McLaughlin is amiable and very concerned with others. She seems to have an almost maternal air to her, but, while she can be genuinely gentle, it seems that she is also fiery and sharp-witted, of quick intellect. Clearly, she is a very outgoing and adventurous person, and—if one bases a conclusion from her encounter with Mr. Kirkland in the hallway—a very passionate person, indeed.

Mr. Zwingli, on the other hand, seems to be a rather contradictory individual. He is very loud when angered, but more than anything he seems to crave peace and quiet. A brief glance toward him informs me of his current position in the room: my bookshelves.

"You can read one if you would like," I say quietly, trying to restrain a renegade laugh as he spins around to look at me like a child with his hand caught in a cookie jar. After a brief moment, he relaxes again and nods.

"Thank you."

I nod, smile, and then return to my notes.

He is polite, but seems a little unsure of himself in polite, person-to-person conversation. Maybe even just a little shy when not asserting his _very_ zealous opinions on a topic. And then, of course, he seems quite fond and protective of his adopted sister, which seems to hint at a caring personality at least to some degree…

Another glance up from my notes and I see that Mr. Zwingli is sitting once more at the sofa, this time reading. By squinting ever-so-slightly through my glasses, I can just barely read the title on the spine, _Crime and Punishment_ by Fyodor Dostoyevsky.

Looking down at my paperwork once more, I quickly become immersed in writing, re-reading, and reviewing all of my notes from today.

My first day and I already have met so many interesting people, and all to such different extremes.

Shy, bubbly, _not_ shy, and then downright bold. How interesting it will be to cater to all of their needs. And that is only from who I have met _today_. Who knows how many more varying personalities will be met tomorrow. The day after? The day after that? Clearly, my work will be cut out for me.

… But that is not all of my concern, I simply cannot write the rest in tangible notes; what other matters I ponder must remain locked within the labyrinth of my mind.

I do not know _what_, but _something_ is amiss here. I am by no means a follower of conspiracy, but nearly everyone I have seen today seems to be hiding some joint secret. As to what this is, I cannot be certain, but from my first meeting with Mr. Anderson, it became clear that everything is not as it seems. For all I know, I may be somehow imagining this—the product of an over-tired mind—but I somehow think it is more than this. The line from Shakespeare's _MacBeth_ briefly enters my thoughts,

_Nothing is but what is not._

It seems oddly fitting. Nothing is except what is not known, what—in some way—seems of great importance, yet avoids me most decidedly.

They do all keep a secret from me, yes? Why else would they all be so skittish of some topics? Topics that simply do not merit such reactions. But _why_? And, perhaps most importantly, **_what_**? What could possibly—

"Fraulein Ellsworth?"

I start slightly and look toward the source of the voice.

"Yes, Herr Zwingli?"

"My appointment is now finished," he states standing from the sofa.

"Well," I begin, standing and walking out from behind my desk. "It was very nice to meet you. There's a stack of bookmarks on that second shelf on the middle column of shelves, if you wish to save your place, that is."

He gives me a nod and, unless it is a trick of the lighting, also the barest trace of a smile.

"Thank you," he replies, taking a bookmark, placing it into the book on his page, closing it, and returning it to its proper place on the shelf. That done, he walks to where I now stand at the door and holds out his hand, which I grasp in a firm but brief handshake.

"Mr. Zwingli, feel free to return here anytime you feel you need peace and quiet. My door is open anytime that I do not have an appointment already."

Once more, he nods before opening the door and leaving the room. With a glance at the clock and a sigh—it is 20:15—I return to my desk and gather anything I intend to take home with me, slipping it into my satchel. From there, I place the satchel strap on my shoulder, pick up my purse, and set that strap on my other shoulder. This done, I glance at my office once more before I walk to my door, turn the lights off, open the door, step outside, and then lock it.

After shutting the door, I turn to leave, yet just as I do so, I stop quickly to keep from hitting something. I realize after a moment that it was instead _someone_.

"S-sorry!" exclaims a quiet voice. Before even looking up, I immediately recognize the speaker.

Meeting his gaze, I sincerely smile.

"Hello, Mr. Matt. It's nice to see you again so soon. Is there something more you wish to talk about?"

He blushes a little and glances around before shaking his head.

"N-no. Actually, I just got out of a meeting and I saw how dark it had gotten… I-I came down here to see if you were still h-here… When V-Vash came out of your office, I asked him and he s-said that you had some paperwork to finish and stuff… So I j-just thought that I would st-st-stay around, and ask if you wanted s-someone to w-w-walk you out to your c-car… ?"

By the time he has finished speaking, he is red to the tops of his ears and his gaze firmly fixed to either his brown loafers or the tile floor.

I'm honestly not sure that my face looks much better. I can honestly say that it has been a long time since anyone has ever offered to walk me to my car because it had gotten dark. I had only met him today and he barely knows me at all, yet he walks to my office—when he could have gone straight home—simply to ask me if he can walk with me to my car.

"O-of course," I reply before smiling broadly. "Thank you very much."

His blush gets even darker as he nods. "It's n-no p-pr-problem… Wh-where is your c-car p-parked?"

"Out that way," I point to the door to my left.

"Alright. M-my car is out that way, too," he smiles and with that we both begin walking toward the door.

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><p><strong>Thank you again so much for reading and to those who have been reviewing! I appreciate it more than you know!<strong>

**Hope to have the next chapter up soon, but if not, Happy New Year~!**

**~Kanae~**


	8. Confused

**Wow... I worked basically ****_all_**** day on finishing this and proofing it, so if any of my dyslexia has kicked in and I just didn't catch it, I apologize. I'll probably proof this again tomorrow and pray that I didn't make a complete idiot out of myself, but I'm trying to get as much typed as possible before my schedule gets booked up again. -sigh- Why must life interfere with my writing and updates? Why? **

**Anyway, here's the next chapter.**

**_FIRST WARNING:_**

**This may be the longest chapter, yet. It was fifteen pages or so on Word, so do not start it if you have five minutes before you have to go somewhere or get things done unless you are an incredibly fast reader.**

**_SECOND WARNING_****:**

**Some language is utilized with the character in this particular chapter. **

**If this does not bother you at all, simply skip the rest of this author's note; if this does concern or bother you in any way, please continue reading this.**

**The language is nothing awful or filthy. **

**I assure you, the f-bomb is not dropped even once; there are no 'slang terms' for the anatomy that sometimes are used to describe people; nor is there any terminology used as a racial slur. I assure you that none of what is mentioned above will be in my story at any point in time as I am opposed to use of such words.**

**What is there is, in essence, rather mild language.**

**Another note is that it is not used every other word. In fact, it is rather spread out for the most part. I still do apologize, though, if anyone is offended by the language-I do not take use of it lightly. As I said, however, I do feel that this is how the character would speak and I think this will be understood once the character is revealed. **

**Thanks for reading and I hope you enjoy. ^_^**

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><p><strong>Chapter 7: Confused<strong>

I wake up to light on my face and I sit up, very confused and head pounding. Through cracked eyelids, I try to remember last night and how I had ended up here and where exactly _here_ is…

It is only after forcing my eyes entirely open that I remember.

After Mr. Williams had walked me to my car last night, we had discovered that two of my tires had been slashed. That had been more than a little upsetting and, worse yet, neither he nor I had been able to get in touch with anyone to correct the problem. We had stood out in the winter cold for nearly forty minutes. I had repeatedly assured him that he could go home, that I would work something out, but he wouldn't hear of it… Instead, when it was clear no help would be reached, he had kindly offered me a ride home, and…

_Oh, dear Lord, no…_

I must have fallen asleep in his car on the way to my house during our discussion about Canada, which I had travelled to on several family vacations when I was younger. We had been discussing the lovely country and…

And I fell asleep somewhere in the topic of the beautiful forests… Did I mention that I haven't slept well in months?

But then how had I gotten to my room in my house…

_He must have….brought… me… here…._

Glancing around quickly, I see a paper on my bedside table and pick it up, finding that it is a note that reads:

_Ms. Ellsworth,_

_I apologize for entering into your lovely home uninvited, but you fell asleep in my car on the way here, and I was unable to wake you when we arrived. I also apologize because I had to carry you inside without permission and to do that I had to reach into your coat pockets and look for your keys… Again, I really do apologize… And after I unlocked the door, I carried you in here. I just brought you in, set you on your bed, and covered you up. The only thing I did was take your shoes off. Other than your shoes, you're just as you were yesterday, even your winter coat._

_I'll drive here around seven to pick you up and take you to work since you still have no car I assume._

_Matthew_

_Well… Judging from the scribbles, the deep indents, and the occasional ink blots that decorate the paper, writing the note explaining what had—and had not—happened had been just as awkward for him as trying to remember last night at all had been for me…_

Getting out of bed, I see that it is just how he had said; I am clothed exactly the same, even to my winter coat. A glance to the foot of my bed shows my shoes neatly on the floor by the bed post. Sighing and shaking my head, I look to my clock on my bedside table and see that it is currently 6:00.

After gathering fresh clothes—and Tylenol—I go into the bathroom and close the door, intent on a shower before my ride to work arrived.

A little over thirty minutes later, I emerge from the bathroom showered, dried, and dressed. I have even applied makeup and pulled my hair into a loose, yet neat bun. I refuse to look like I just threw my hair into a tie without brushing it. Appearance is not all important, but it _is_ important. It shows how serious you are about your job and the people with whom you deal. If I were to just throw my hair into some messy travesty disguised as a bun, it would look sloppy, as if I don't care enough to try to look good for my patients and my job. For this reason, I _always_ try to look my best.

As I walk out of my bedroom and into my kitchen, I straighten my red dress shirt and smooth my black slacks. With what time I have remaining, I prepare my breakfast—toast and jelly with a couple slices of bacon and eggs on the side—and quickly consume it. I finish with enough time that I have no need to rush as I put on my winter coat and pick up my purse and work satchel. This done, I walk out of my house, lock the door, and then go to stand out in the drive.

While waiting patiently for my ride to arrive—and planning exactly what I could say to tell Mr. Matt exactly how thankful I am that _he_ had been the one driving me home, as it could have been Monsieur Bonnefoy—my phone rings. I quickly reach into my purse, fish it out, hold it to my ear, and answer.

"Hello. You have reached Abigail Ellsworth. May I inquire as to who this is?"

"Um, hi, Ms. Abby. It's Matthew."

"Oh, hello, Mr. Matt," I smile.

"I kn-know I said that I would come pick you up, but I forgot I had an early meeting. I hope you don't mind, but I asked one of the other representatives to pick you up instead…"

"Oh, you didn't have to go to all that trouble. It's not that far. Honestly, I can walk there now that it's daylight," I reply, glancing down and being thankful that I am wearing flats rather than heels.

"Oh no! You shouldn't have to w-walk that far! The representative is one of my friends. I tried to get in touch with a few others before him just because of… circumstances, but I wasn't able to so I called him and he should be there soon…. Um… You don't have any problem with riding a bicycle, do you? Have you ridden one before?"

_Bicycle?_

"Yes… I have. I don't have any problem riding them."

Just as I am about to ask why he wants to know, however, I think I understand. At the very end of the street appears a cyclist peddling a two-seater bicycle…

_Well then_…

As the cyclist gets closer and I can begin to make details out about _him_, I speak to Mr. Matt.

"I think I see your friend. Is he rather tall with light brown hair, looks somewhat tan, is wearing a three-layer coat and scarf? He also appears to be smoking…"

"Ahh, yes. That should be him. As I said, he's a representative also. Actually, if I understood him correctly, he's your first appointment today."

"Who is he?"

"His name is Jakob van Vranken. He is the representative for the Netherlands."

"Well, thank you very much, Mr. Matt. I really am sorry for the trouble I caused you yesterday and today, but thank you."

"I-It's n-n-no t-trouble, Ms. Abby," he replies and I am certain that I can almost _hear_ him blush through the phone. "W-well, b-break is almost over and I'm sure J-Jakob will be there shortly so, b-bye."

"Good bye. Have a good meeting and thanks again."

"B-b-bye."

With that, we both hang up and not but a few moments later the cyclist stops in front of my drive and fixes me with a steady, calculating stare.

"Ms. Ellsworth," he says finally, squinting his eyes ever-so-slightly.

"Yes. Herr van Vranken, I presume?"

He gives a curt nod before scrutinizing me. Finally, he raises his gaze to my eyes once more.

"Can you ride and peddle a bike in that outfit? 'cause otherwise, going up the hills is going to be hell on my legs."

The way he asks this question is so deadpan that I know he is perfectly serious, but he's so frank that I can't help but chuckle a little, a reaction that has him to tilt his head slightly to the right and narrow his eyes.

Clearly, he is an observer, as I am, that much I can deduce already. I'm nearly certain that he is watching my movements and reactions just as closely as I watch my patients.

_Interesting_.

"Yes, Herr van Vranken," I reply at last with a smile. "I can still peddle."

"Good."

He nods and then raises the lid to the wire basket mounted to the front of the bike. Already there is a dark brown fabric satchel within.

"Put your bags here. Hopefully they'll both fit anyway. They should… barely," he concludes, once more narrowing his eyes as he glances from the two bags on my shoulders to the wire basket already containing his own satchel.

"Alright."

Stepping forward, I carefully place my purse and satchel down into the basket and—just as he had predicted—the bags all just barely fit, yet fit they do. As soon as I have stepped away from the basket, he closes and latches the basket and jerks his head in the direction of the backseat.

"Hop on, Miss."

Without another word, I do so and seat myself on the bike.

"Situated?"

"Ready to leave when you are?"

Another nod from him and we depart from my drive. I do not peddle for only the time it takes him to establish the speed and then I assist him. The pace is easy enough—I wonder if he's not going slower because he's unsure of my bike skills and of what kind of shape I am in—and the ride is quiet. It is not an awkward quiet, as it could be, but rather simply silence in absence of anything useful to say.

Halfway between my residence and the UN complex, he glances over his shoulder at me. Looking forward again, he questions. "Are you alright?"

"Yes, I am fine. We can go faster if you would like. It won't bother me."

There is a pause and then an "Are you sure?"

"Of course. I wouldn't have said so if it wasn't."

Another nod follows and then his pace increases. It isn't long before we are nearly flying down the street.

In all honesty, it is rather exhilarating. I manage to hold in the somewhat random urge to laugh, but I cannot keep from smiling. It really has been such a long time since I last rode a bike; I had almost forgotten how much I used to enjoy bike ride back when…

I hurriedly push _those_ thoughts back to the dark corner from whence they came and where they should _stay_. I will _not_ spend another day at work in tears.

"You still alright?" questions Herr van Vranken.

Looking up to see he has once more turned to glance at me, I realize he has most likely noticed my expression, which I can only assume is not the best, and thinks that I am perhaps straining myself to keep up with him. I further suspect this when I feel the pace slow slightly.

"I'm fine. I'm just thinking. That's all."

"Oh. Well. Sorry to bother you then," he answers, turning to watch the way once more.

"It's no bother. It was honestly something I'd prefer not to think of anyway."

There is a slight pause and even without facing him, I seem to think he wants to say something more.

"What is it, Herr van Vranken?"

The pause continues a moment longer before his voice is heard again, a little softer than the gruffness I have been hearing in it.

"I know I don't have any right to say this really, but if you ever need to talk about whatever it is… I mean… I'm not what anyone would call talkative most of the time, and I wouldn't take my own advice unless I was drunk or high… But I listen well enough, I guess."

With tears nearly filling my eyes, I blink and nod. I then realize that he cannot see the motion, obviously, so I manage to pull my voice together enough for a quiet, "Thank you" that I'm not sure is even audible, but he must have heard because he gives a slight nod.

The remainder of the ride is completed in silence and by the time we have arrived and passed through security, we decide we might as well just walk to my office.

Once we have arrived there, I unlock the door and open it, stepping in and flipping the lights on as Herr van Vranken walks inside as well. He shuts the door behind him, and I walk to my desk only long enough to set my bags down, then return to where he stands.

"Before you say anything else," he begins, looking down at me from—what I would suppose to be—a height of about 6'3" judging by how much taller he is than me, "Matt told me and I've noticed that you tend to stay with the last name unless told otherwise. I'm telling you otherwise. My name is Jakob. _Just _Jakob. No 'mister' or 'herr' or whatever else. Formality is a bitch."

I chuckle slightly. So frank.

"Well, _Jakob_, then I'm sure Mr. Matt has told you that my name is Abigail or Abby," I retort with a smile. He nods in reply, and I continue. "Now. Would you prefer to sit in a chair in front of my desk or the sitting area?"

"Like I said, formality is a bitch."

That said, he walks toward the sofa and sits, myself not far behind him.

Clearly, he is indeed _very_ frank with his opinions and blunt in their delivery. He may be a little rough around the edges, yet overall, he seems a good person. Though… I do wish he would put out that cigarette…

As if reading my thoughts—or perhaps just seeing where my eyes rest then deducing the thought behind my expression—he removes the cigarette from his lips and looks at me.

"Sorry. 'm so used to it being there that I don't even think about it."

"That's quite alright," I respond, my voice just slightly rougher than it has been.

In the open air, the smoke had not been quite so concentrated, but here in my office… Well, being allergic to cigarette smoke can be rather unfortunate at times…

Again, I observe that his observational skills seem first rate, for, once more, he narrows his eyes, apparently catching the change in my voice, and then looks to the clock.

"It's another five minutes before my actual appointment time. I'll go outside and finish this, then get rid of it."

Without waiting for any response from me, he stands and leaves my office.

If nothing else, he is considerate.

Only after the door has closed and a minute has passed do I allow myself to release the cough I had been holding in with him present.

I continue to sit on the sofa, and—just like clockwork—he enters on the very first chime of my grandfather clock. As he crosses the room and sits down once more, I see that he has indeed disposed of the cigarette, just as he said he would do.

"So, Jakob," I begin, placing my hands on my lap as I turn slightly to face him. "How are you today?"

" 'm well enough. Can't complain honestly."

"That's good, and I already know about at least part of your day, but how has your day gone thus far?"

"Well. I got up at four-thirty to start working in my greenhouse in my house here… That at around five forty-five, I went back to my room to get rid of the hooker," he answers. My eyes widen slightly, but I catch him glance at me briefly, and there is something in his eyes and his expression that has me to doubt him. He's discreetly watching my reaction. Likely trying to test me.

"Jakob. Please be serious."

Looking at me more intently and directly, he squints and quirks an eyebrow.

"What do you mean?"

His countenance again has moved to something more careful and guarded—with perhaps a hint of amusement?—and he seems earnest enough, but for some reason, I simply cannot believe him. There's nothing in particular that I can really put my finger on, but something seems to disprove his words.

"Be serious about what you're telling me, please."

"Meaning?"

"Don't tell me things that aren't true. There was no hooker."

"How do _you_ know? You weren't at my house."

"No. I wasn't, but I know that there wasn't one."

At my rather adamant statement, he merely stares at me, blinking every so often, and I begin to doubt my words.

… Until he breaks into a grin so full of mischief that it might put Ms. McLoughlin to shame.

Well… Maybe not _that_ mischievous, but still…

"You _are_ very observant. You seemed like you were when I first pulled up in the drive and you were analyzing me, but now I know for sure that you are. What gave me away?"

"I don't know. There was just something in your face that made me think you were joking."

"Partly, but I also wanted to know if you can see past the BS. It might be useful with me."

_Useful? What does he mean? He's not a compulsive liar, is he?_

"Well then, Jakob, would you like to start again?"

He nods, only the barest trace of the smirk lingering at the corners of his mouth.

"You're right. There was no hooker. I went back to my bedroom to get to my bathroom and take a shower after gardening. I blared my stereo while I was showering, which relaxed me and got me in decent enough humor.

"And then after that, I got out, got dressed, and walked to my bedside table to check my cell phone. I had six missed calls, the same number of voicemails, and some twenty text messages. All of which were from Matt about the therapist that needed to be picked up for work," he says, presenting me with an amused look. "So just as I was about to call him back, my home phone rings and it's my sister, Bella. She was calling to ask what girl I slept with last night—and _ja_, I said _girl_ for a reason—and I told her that I hadn't. She laughed, called me a liar, and hung up on me."

At this, he pauses and his eyebrows furrow as he slightly bows his head. It does not even take my level of observational skill to realize something is bothering him.

"Jakob? What is it?"

He raises his eyes to meet mine without lifting his head. He seems to hesitate a moment before he leans forward to rest his elbows on his knees and clasps his hands.

"Look. If you're around for _any_ amount of time, you're likely to hear a lot of shit about me, even from my sister… I'm not going to discuss with you what _exactly_ you'll hear—you'll hear it soon enough—but you need to know here and now that it's just what I said it is: shit.

"They can call me a lot of things—a druggie, a bastard, traitor, whatever else, hell, even a bum if they want, despite the fact that I work my ass off—and I wouldn't ever say a word contradicting them, mostly because a lot of it is true. Not all of it, but a lot."

_How much?_

"But what they'll say most often and most loudly is a lie. It's shit they came up with from incidents where they thought they knew what was going on and didn't, and it's my reputation that's suffered because of it. Beyond that, there's bad blood between us from times that I don't care to discuss right now that I will take the blame for nearly entirely. Unfortunately, my sister has plenty of friends and is well-liked, so now nearly everyone believes what she says about me."

"But surely—"

"Trust me. You'll hear it soon enough and I don't feel like explaining it exactly, but don't believe it. I'm not perfect and I'm nowhere close to it, but dammit, I've never done what they say I have!" he exclaims angrily, slamming his fist down on his leg hard enough that if _must_ have hurt, though, he doesn't show it.

Truthfully, I am not sure _how_ to react or what to say to the rather cryptic words. He seems so ardently assertive that he is innocent and fervently wishes for me to believe so, and yet, I know now of _what_ he is innocent. How will I know to what he is referring if and when I finally do hear it? And what on Earth could prompt such a strong reaction from the seemingly tranquil man? Could it truly be as bad as it seems?

I scan his face, looking for any trace that he is simply trying to manipulate me—blame my distrust on years of personal experience at my expense—but I can find nothing in his expression or posture to tell me anything other than that he is truthful. His emotion seems too sincere to be faked. It crosses my mind that he could simply be a _sensational_ actor, but somehow I think that is not one of his true skills. He may be able to possess and expressionless face at times, but an actor I do not think him.

"A… Alright," I say at last, still quite baffled. "Um… W-would you like to move forward then? Tell me what happened after the phone call?"

He sighs and then leans back again, maybe thinking my uncharacteristic stutter was from his somewhat aggressive posture.

"Well… Like I said… She called my home phone and I was so pissed that I threw it at the wall hard enough that the thing more or less exploded on impact…" he answers with a sigh and a rather contemplative look. "… I may be patching another hole in my wall…"

_Another? Does he have anger problems perhaps?_

"And after that?"

"Well, I checked and saw that I'd definitely be buying a new phone, which also kind of pissed me off… And then my cell phone rang again and I answered it because it was Matt. Anyway, he told me to go pick up some therapist lady because he was supposed to go pick her up and was at an early meeting he had forgotten about, and there was this whole long story of why he was supposed to pick her up, and that he would have gotten other people to do it except he couldn't get in touch with them," he intones, almost as if this type situation happens often. "And the story went on into infinity until I thought he might have another panic attack, so I managed to get his attention and tell him that I would do it. I think you can figure out the rest."

"And are you still upset from this morning?"

He shrugs lazily. "Eh. A little I guess, but that bike ride this morning really was rather pleasant. Quiet. That doesn't happen often that I can ride a bike with someone else _and_ have quiet. Matt always has to start talking because he feels awkward after a while, and _Matthias_… I don't think he even knows _how_ to stop talking."

"Matthias?" I question.

"Denmark."

"The representative of?"

Something flashes in his eyes—the same look I had noted in the others—and he quickly nods.

"Ja. The representative of Denmark."

I decide against asking him about his reaction and instead choose a different route. "And is Matthias a friend of yours?"

"Well… Not gonna lie. He's a pain in the ass… But he's not a total two-faced, gossiping bastard like some people here, and even though he jokes about _it_ sometimes, I don't think he actually believes what everyone else seems to think about me… He helps me out if I get into a tight spot when we go drinking… So… I guess we're… 'friends'."

I nod understandingly and then glance at the clock. Time to wrap up.

"Well, Jakob. There's about three minutes left so I just want you to know that you can return anytime I do not have another appointment or you can call me."

He nods in return and stands. I follow the action, and we both walk to the door.

As I open the door for him, he starts to walk out but pauses just in the doorway.

"Assuming no one's scared you out of talking to me by the end of the day, I'll be here to get you back to your house this evening."

Thus spoken, he departs, already pulling a cigarette from his coat and lighting it as he turns the corner.

Shutting the door, I sigh.

Somehow, I feel as though I am back in school and have just passed a most important test in seemingly gaining _his_ approval—trust?

But, in all honesty, as I sit at my desk pondering what to write in my notes, I just feel very confused…

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><p><strong>Well, I hope that anyone who was worried about the language was not horrified by what was there. I apologize if anyone was.<strong>

**I also hope that this chapter was enjoyed.**

**Jakob van Vranken is the name that I came up with for the Netherlands, because I did not like the name 'Lars'. Also, random fact, one meaning of 'van Vranken' is 'free man', exactly what the Netherlands has fought to be throughout history. Just something random I thought I'd share.**

**This is probably the character on the show that I have had the most to work with in terms of developing. As far as I have seen, the Netherlands has shown up very little in the manga and the anime, so I hope I have not butchered him. Most of this was based between the anime/manga and history and then weaving it together into a character. I really do apologize if he seems OOC. I tried my best to make him seem 'in character' though he is not often seen... Please do share with me if he is not.**

**Thanks a lot for reading and reviewing!**

**~Kanae~**


	9. HIM

**Thank you to those of you who have reviewed. I assure all of you that I am posting these chapters as quickly as I can with my rather hectic schedule. I am not purposely delaying. It only depends on when I have time to type.**

**Hope you enjoy!**

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><p>Chapter 8: <em>Him<em>

My notes for Herr van Vranken are nearly as vague and cryptic as he had been—with many more questions than might _ever_ be answered—but by the time there is a loud, authoritative knock on my door, the notes _have_ been written.

Closing my notebook, I walk to the door and open it to reveal a tall, blond man that looks as though he is built to pick up houses. He is an impressive sight, honestly. Polished shoes. Crisp, wrinkle-free suit. Slicked-back hair. He is the very personification of order and neatness.

"Guten morgen, fraulein," he greets, a curt nod.

"Good morning," I answer.

"You are Fraulein Ellsworth, ja?"

"That I am, but I fear I am at a disadvantage, Herr… ?"

"Beilschmidt. Ludwig Beilschmidt."

"Ah, it is very nice to meet you, but I believe my appointment is with—"

"Mein bruder. Und, ja, it is," he replies as he steps back, reaches over, and hauls another man into sight. My eyes widen slightly even as the blond continues to speak. "He refused to come here of his own accord so I had to pick him up and carry him over my shoulder."

At this, he gives the shorter, smaller-built man in front of him a stern look.

My first thought is that I have no doubt Herr Ludwig Beilschmidt could have carried this man, and several others had he chosen, on those very broad shoulders with no trouble at all…

My second thought, however, is that I _finally_ have a name for _his_ face. Albeit, that face is looking at me now with some odd combination of embarrassment and annoyance. Which of the two is more prevalent I cannot determine.

"Well then, Herr Gilbert Beilschmidt," I begin, making sure to pronounce his name with the same diligence I use when speaking what little Germany I know—which has both men to look at me curiously. Crossing my arms and raising an eyebrow at the shorter of the pair, I continue. "You've seen me once and we even exchanged words briefly in the hall. I can think of nothing I said to dissuade you from attending your appointment, so I must ask… Do I really look so hideous that I've scared you away? I assure you, I am hardly capable of turning people to stone."

For the briefest instant, his red eyes merely blink at me and then, quite suddenly, he bursts into a fit of laughter, at which, the taller blond rolls his eyes and sighs. After several moments have passed, the red-eyed man is once more in control of himself enough to breathe and respond.

"Fraulein. It is NOTHING against you personally, and I wouldn't exactly call you 'hideous' either," he remarks with a smirk, directing such a look at me that I nearly blush. "I just don't really care for your job."

_Of course…_

With a slight sigh, I retort. "Aha. I see. Well, like it or not, you—like everyone else—have a first appointment to get through. If you choose to return never again, _then_ you have a choice in the matter. _This_ meeting, however, is mandatory."

"Fiery, aren't you?" he smirks, quirking his eyebrow. "Do you wanna s—"

"Bruder!" Ludwig Beilschmidt interjects quickly, turning slightly red in the face. "*Bitte, not another law suit I must talk someone out of…" (*_**Please,**_)

_Another lawsuit? Well…_

"Fine! I'll keep my awesomeness in check," he answers, seeming to pout.

_Hmm… He seems to act so differently now… Why? When I first had seen him in the hallway, he seemed so very different from now… What has changed? Perhaps more interestingly, why?_

"Now, if you will be so kind as to step into my office, we'll get this appointment over with for you."

"Javole," he smirks before walking confidently—arrogantly?—past me and into the room.

The blond German sighs and looks to me almost apologetically before speaking again, "Fraulein Ellsworth, I will stay out here in the case that you require my assistance…"

"I'm sure we'll get along just fine, Herr Beilschmidt," I reply. "If you have something else to do, feel free to leave."

"I will remain all the same…"

"As you wish."

That said, I re-enter my office to see my patient already quite comfortably seated on the sofa.

_Well that's one less question to deal with, I suppose…_

I would almost say, because he was not invited or asked to sit down on the sofa, that he is slightly unmannered except that as soon as I walk into the room, he stands.

Here, I seem to catch the smallest glimpse of the Gilbert Beilschmidt I had seen in the hallway on my first day. Another change has come over him. Most noticeable, his previous smirk is absent. His posture is no longer slouchy, but rather, nearly as Herr Zwingli's posture. In fact, it is quite nearly militaristic with his heels clicked together and arms at his sides.

Yet, suddenly, he quickly relaxes, slouches a little more, pulls the smirk back across his face.

I had somehow caught him off guard… Perhaps he had been deep in thought before I walked into the room much as he had been deep in thought before he had addressed me in the hallway the _first_ time. Once he had remembered himself and completely broken from his thoughts, he realized how he was presenting himself and changed once more to slouching and smirking.

_Why?_

"Herr Beilschmidt, if you will sit for just a moment longer, I will be right with you."

Sitting once more, he stares at me rather perplexed as I walk to my desk, pull my chair from behind it, and wheel it to the door.

When I open the door, I am met by yet another stare, but this one is quite different.

"Already?" asks the tall blond almost in disbelief. I can only assume that he believes me to have returned to ask for his help.

"Nein, Herr Beilschmidt. Actually," I begin, pulling my chair into view and then rolling it out into the hallway. "You said that you would be staying here. I would hate for you to have to stand the entire forty minutes. Please, use my chair."

His eyes widen slightly and immediately, he shakes his head. "Nein, fraulein. I could not take your chair."

"I have a seat in my office, I assure you."

"Well… I…" he flounders a moment before nodding and gently taking the chair from me, a slightly softer look on his face than had been there thus far. "Danke."

Once more I smile, "You're welcome."

I return to my office and close the door, looking to my patient. He is gazing at me in much the same manner as his sibling with more than a little surprise added.

"*Und wie geht es Ihnen?" I question as I walk to the sofa and sit beside him. (*_**And how are you?**_)

One pale eyebrow raises as his crimson eyes adopt a more curious gleam. "*Gut, Fraulein. Und you?" (*_**Good.**_)

"I can't complain."

"You can from what I heard."

I tilt my head slightly at the remark. "What do you mean?"

"I heard that your tires were slashed on your car und Jakey had to bring you to work. Most people would consider that something to complain about."

Whether he is referring to the fact that my tires being slashed or that Jakob brought me to work, I am in all honesty not sure. The way he said it could have lent credence to either as a valid answer. Either way, I shall answer the same.

I shrug. "I do not see the point."

"What do _you_ mean?" he questions, obviously now interested in why I would respond with this.

"It was probably a teen under peer pressure or a child acting out. I doubt there was any serious malice behind it."

"Und if there was, Fraulein? What then?"

He now seems the closest now to being as he was the first time we met. Focused. Serious.

"Then, it can be dealt with at a later time."

He squints at me, reminding me just a little of Jakob, before he nods. "Not much bothers you, does it?"

"There are much worse things in life than to have a couple of replaceable tires slashed," I answer simply.

"_Much_," he agrees, suddenly seeming _exactly_ how he had in our first encounter. He appears pensive, the look in his blood red eyes rather dark and distant.

_What has done this to him?_

The intensity of this lasts less than a few seconds, however, as he smirks once more. "Well, Fraulein Therapist, what should we discuss now?"

"I suppose we can discuss your day thus far."

"It's been awesome, as usual," he responds, leaning back into the cushions of the sofa.

When he offers nothing more, I prompt him with, "Would you care to elaborate?"

"Well, this morning, I pestered Roddy for a while, but about the time he was getting mad enough to actually argue with me, Elizaveta came in with that freaking frying pan, and I got the hell out of there. I do _not_ have a death wish, after all. I'm too awesome to die, and that chick is _CRAZY_," he answers, rolling his eyes.

Just as it appears he will continue speaking, a rather odd noise resounds throughout the room.

'_Cheep!'_

At this, we both pause and fall to silence.

'CheepCheepCheep!'

The noise seems to originate from just outside the window behind my desk. Having discovered the source, my curiosity is sated and I turn my attention once more to my patient. Herr Beilschmidt, on the other hand, seems to be intently listening to the sound as though understanding it.

The chirping quickly becomes more frantic, panicked. This elicits an _immediate_ reaction from my patient. His eyes widen nearly to the size of golf balls before he jumps up from the sofa with a loud, "Sheiße!"

He nearly runs to my window and—without even a glance my way—throws it open and leans outside.

"ACK!" is his next exclamation as he clambers out the window and out of my sight.

Feeling a little anxious, I stand, walk to the now open window, and look outside to see Herr Beilschmidt chasing a cat that is chasing a little yellow bird…

_Whaaaaaat?_

Both bird and patient appear _highly_ distressed, and it is almost as if the bird is trying to get to the other but is being continually blocked by the cat.

Seeing that the situation is not improving, I sigh, throw my coat on, and then I, too, climb out the window. When I reach the ground, I kick off my shoes so that I may run.

While Herr Beilschmidt focuses on rescuing the little bird, I devise a different tactic.

Upon getting close enough to the chase, I quickly pick up the cat.

This earns me a scratch to my hand, which makes me wince, but I hold it steady and watch as the little yellow bird lands on Herr Beilschmidt's outstretched, upturned hand. The German instantly bring the bird close to him and pets it gently. His mouth is moving and so I assume that he is speaking to it, though, as he is some small distance from me, I cannot quite hear him.

Instead of bothering him, my attention turns to the cat I am holding. After the original thrashing that had resulted in my scratched hand, the cat had stilled and is now only staring at me with green eyes.

The cat is full grown with short tan-ish fur that seems to stick out rather determinedly, though it is not course or bristly. The cat, from what I observe, looks starved. In fact, I can almost see its ribs through its fur. Poor creature.

It continues to stare at me with its big green eyes and I realize that is has an odd stripe above one of its eyes, which oddly reminds me of someone, but who?

"*Teufelkatze!" shouts a voice in front of me. (*_**Devil cat!**_)

I look up to see Herr Beilschmidt glaring at the cat and protectively holding the yellow bird in his hands.

"Is the bird alright?"

"Ja. No thanks to that _thing_. It ought to be put down. It's clearly vicious!" he exclaims.

"It's not vicious," I quickly defend, hugging it slightly closer to me. "It's just starved. Can't you see that?"

He scowls darkly. "It attacked Gilbird!"

"It's probably only desperate for food!" I retort, getting rather uncharacteristically irritated by his indifference. "You cannot punish the poor creature for trying to survive! That is the most basic right of anything: to live and survive. You cannot fault it for that! What if someone told you that you were vicious and should be put down when all you're trying to do is survive? How would you feel?"

At my words, he suddenly appears stricken. His face drains of the little color it holds and his red eyes widen substantially. In them is something quite close to fear.

Instantly, I reanalyze my words, searching for what had caused this reaction, but I can think of nothing.

"Herr Beilschmidt? What is wrong?" I ask, taking a step closer to him.

He shivers lightly before blinking and blearily gazes at me, eyes not entirely focused.

"Wh-whaa?"

"Are you alright?"

He closes his eyes and shakes his head as if to dispel a fog. When his eyes open this time, he seems in reality once more.

"Ja. I am fine," he replies at last. He then glances to the cat I still hold. "Hn… I know where we can find it some _non_-Gilbird food… Follow me."

As instructed, I follow, too distracted to even think of shutting my window.

He leads me nearly entirely around the building before he finally walks to a door and opens it.

"You can stand here. I'll bring the stuff out."

"Alright."

With that, he disappear inside the building, and I look down to the cat again and readjust my hold to be almost cradling it.

"Where have you been that you're so underfed? You don't have a tag so you probably don't even belong to anyone…"

It only continues to stare at me, blinking, but then again, it's not like I expect an answer from it. The cat does, however, snuggle closer to me, and it is only then that I realize how cold it is. Unbuttoning my coat slightly, I carefully readjust once more and with one arm, I cradle the cat within my thick, winter coat. The poor, shivering thing snuggling closer still. With my other hand, I begin to gently pet the cat, and it is not long before he is softly purring.

Not but a few moments later, Gilbert—Gilbird now on his head—emerges from the door carrying a medium-sized brown paper bag.

"Let's go back to your office," he states, already walking that way. I quickly follow, holding the cat securely as I do so.

The walk back—save for our footsteps, the quiet purring of the cat, and an occasional _cheep_ from Gilbird—is silent, which gives me time to think.

First. The bird. 'Gilbird'.

Clearly, Herr Beilschmidt has some sort of connection and history with the small creature. When he had heard its fearful chirping, he had reacted almost as a parent to a child in danger. The little chick must be a beloved pet, yet it seems quite young. To form such a strong attachment to a pet already is somewhat odd to me, but this may perhaps point to a very strong protective quality in his personality.

Second. The effect of my words.

They had produced _such_ a strong reaction to a simple statement paralleling the situation of that cat to understandable terms. Not only had he completely ceased his 'threats', but he had almost _completely _changed his stand by helping it rather than insisting on having it be put down or letting it starve to death. Beyond that is his original reaction. That look of shock, fear, and pain is still in my mind. It is clear to me his red eyes were seeing some other thing, but what could be so bad in his past to cause it? And how had my words triggered it?

Turning them over and over again in my mind, I am still unable to find anything unusual about them. They are words and expressions that are fairly common to use in such a situation. _Why_ had he reacted in such a pronounced manner?

"Do you need help, Fraulein?"

His voice separates me from my thoughts and I return to myself enough to notice we have arrived at the window of my office and he is amusedly staring at me.

"I… um… No. I think I can manage it," I reply and I can feel my face heat up slightly. How careless of me to get so lost in thought as that!

Not speaking another word, I support the cat with one arm and use the other to assist me in my endeavor to re-enter my office via window. Though I do nearly trip—I would swear I hear a snicker behind me—I right myself once more and am safely standing on the hardwood flooring…

Without shoes…

"Missing something, Fraulein?"

I turn back to the window to see Herr Beilschmidt holding up my shoes that I had removed when I went to help him.

"Thank you," I smile as I take the shoes from him.

He nods and then, as I put on my shoes, climbs into the room. Glancing at the grandfather clock, I realize we now have but a few minutes remaining and I _still_ know next to nothing about him!

Looking to him, I watch him set out two bowls behind my desk, once he has already filled with milk and he is currently opening a container of sushi.

"Probably not the _best_ thing in the world, but it's the best I could do…"

"I'm sure he won't mind, and sushi should be alright in a small amount."

I look down to the cat who is staring at the food. With a small smile, I kneel and set down the cat. While Herr Beilschmidt is placing some of the sushi in the bowl, the cat remains by me, but once the man has moved, the cat slowly approaches the bowls. Sniffing warily, it then takes a small, tentative bite and then, deciding that the food is alright, begins to devour it.

A sudden—freezing—touch to my left hand snaps my attention there and I realize that Herr Beilschmidt has lifted my hand and is currently staring at it.

"That cat really caught your hand," he states seriously. "You should clean it out so it does not get infected."

"I can take care of it. I have cleaner in my desk."

With that he takes one step over to my desk.

"Which drawer?"

"Oh! I can take care of it. You don't have to—"

"Which drawer, Fraulein?" he repeats, ignoring my protest.

With a sigh, I answer, "In the top middle drawer."

He nods and then opens the aforementioned drawer and removes the cleaner and a cotton ball from it. That done, he returns to me.

Unscrewing the lid, he pours some of the cleaner onto the cotton ball and takes my hand once more, immediately setting to the task of cleaning it. I only barely refrain from wincing as the cleaner touches the scratches and only hold my breath as he cleans.

Once he is satisfied with its cleanliness, he nods once and releases my hand before replacing everything in the drawer from whence it came.

Now, in looking at the clock, I realize the meeting time is indeed over.

"Well, Herr Beilschmidt, thank you for your help. It was very nice to meet you. I hope this isn't the last time we ever meet, even if you do not choose to come back for another appointment."

He seems to briefly and discreetly analyze me before smirking.

"Maybe, Fraulein Shrink. But if we do see each other again, I expect you to call me Gilbert, not 'Herr Beilschmidt', understood?"

I smile slightly. "Very well, Gilbert."

He then nods—still smirking—then walks to the door, me following. I open the door for him, he exits the room, and once more, I witness a near 360 in his personality. He is again slouchy, smirking, and already loudly greeting his brother.

"Well, Herr Ludwig Beilschmidt, I shall see you in another five minutes, if that is alright with you."

"It is fine, fraulein," he answers before pushing my chair to the door. "Your chair."

"Danke."

Rolling it into my office once more, I shut the door and return to my desk, dragging the chair behind me. The cat—who has already emptied the bowls—walks over and rubs against my legs, purring before curling up under my desk.

Five minutes for my notes. It is not the shortest time I have had to write, but for one who is unsure even of where to start… The task is rather daunting…

I suppose the best course of action, is to summarize from the beginning…

* * *

><p><strong>Not really much to say here other than I hope that you enjoyed reading and I would love to hear from you. If there are any typos, I apologize. I decided I would post now as I am not sure of when my next free time will be. So please forgive me.<strong>

**~Kanae~**


	10. Secret Code

**So, ah... Please don't stone me... Or chase me with pitchforks and torches... I know it's been a LONG time inbetween updates, but if I sat here and typed out everything that has been going on, no one would bother to read it or believe it, so here's the next chapter. Hope it's still enjoyed.**

**~Kanae~**

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter Nine: Secret Code<strong>

After five minutes have passed, I stand, close my notebook and walk to the door, opening it to find Herr Ludwig Beilschmidt already standing there.

"Please, come inside," I say, stepping out of the way.

He nods but turns to his brother.

"Bruder. Remember what I said. Remain here until my appointment is finished. Understood?"

The man addressed leans back against the wall, arms crossed, and rolls his eyes.

"Ja, ja, Westen. I understand."

"Gut."

Not another word between them and the tall blond walks past me and into my office.

Glancing at Gilbert, I notice he appears somewhere between annoyed and embarrassed, glaring at the floor. From what I have read in their files, Gilbert is the older of the two, yet from what I have _observed_, Ludwig throws around the most weight, holds the most power. I am an only child, but even I can understand why Gilbert would react in such a manner.

"Gilbert?"

His eyes—those _eyes_—immediately snap to my face.

"Ja, Fraulein?"

"I'll return in a moment." Before he can respond, I disappear into my office, retrieve my desk chair, and roll it out to him. "There. Now you can sit as well."

"Danke," he replies with a nod, looking just a little less upset.

I return the nod and smile before stepping back and closing the door.

"Now, Herr Beilschmidt," I begin, looking at the man standing to my right, "where would you prefer to sit? The sitting area or in one of the chairs in front of my desk?"

"The chairs at the desk."

Just as I had suspected. Herr Ludwig Beilschmidt seems very disciplined and is driven by practicality and functionality over comfort.

The two of us walk to the desk; he sits in one of the huge leather armchairs, and—rather than cause myself extra trouble, I simply turn the second chair in front of my desk to face his chair. Once seated, I look to him and smile.

"Hello, Herr Beilschmidt. How are you today?"

"I am well… Und you?" he stiffly responds.

"Quite well," I reply even as I begin to suspect this meeting may be just as awkward as Sr. Lovino Vargas' meeting had been. "So… How has your day progressed thus far."

"It has gone… well…"

A beat.

"What has happened?"

A beat.

"Nothing very much…"

A beat.

"Herr Beilschmidt. You are uncomfortable, yes?"

Turning a slightly pink-tinged shade, he answers, "W-well, I, uh…"

A sigh.

"Would you feel a little more at ease if I were to tell you about myself first?"

He merely stares at me rather intently, an expression that seems to indicate an affirmative.

"Well, um… My name is Abigail Elizabeth Ellsworth… I am thirty-one… I love art, music… theatre… history," I say before I notice an odd twitch at the last interest I listed. Curious but not letting him know I had seen it, I nearly continue. "I was born in Boston, Massachusetts, but I lived in New York City for nearly ten years…"

"Why did you become a therapist?"

The question startles me, perhaps because he had spoken, perhaps simply because he actually seems curious, but regardless I momentarily find myself at a loss.

Why did I…

_Fear._

_Pure unadulterated fear._

_There was so much blood._

Blinking and forcing the thoughts away, I refocus my attention to Herr Beilschmidt who patiently awaits my answer.

I take a breath, straighten up, and meet his gaze.

"To help people."

For several moments, we stare at each other and then he nods.

"I see… Well—"

He is interrupted by a rather pained shout from outside my door that brings both Herr Beilschmidt and myself to our feet and rushing to the door.

Because he reaches the door first, he throws it open, and then such a look of rage comes over his face as I have rarely seen in my life.

Wary but curious, I peek around him to see Gilbert nearly doubled over, one arm across his stomach and a hand to his nose, droplets of blood seeping through his fingers and falling to the floor.

"Mein Gott!"

Herr Beilschmidt rushes out of the doorway and quickly places himself between Gilbert and a rather tall man—easily 6'4"—who is wearing a purple scarf and tan trenchcoat.

The tall man has an expression that looks rather child-like, but something about him sets alarms off in my mind and I immediately suspect he had something to do with Gilbert's current state.

Allowing Herr Beilschmidt to speak angrily in Russian to the man, I go to Gilbert, placing a careful hand on his shoulder.

"Gilbert?"

"I… I'm alright…" he answers as he slowly straightens, pulling his hand away from a bloodied and broken nose to look at the blood on his hand.

"Verdammt!"

At hearing the exclamation from his older brother, Ludwig turned to look at him.

"Mein Gott im himmel! Gilbert, your—"

"I know, Westen. I know. I'll take care of it."

Without another word on the matter, the man raised both his hands to his nose, placing three fingers on each side of his nose and, with no more than a slight flinch, he popped his nose back into its correct place.

…

Returning his attention to the tall Russian man, Herr Beilschmidt grabs a fistful of the man's trenchcoat at the shoulder.

"I have told you before, _Ivan_. Leave. Mein. Bruder. Alone. The only thing preventing me from beating the breath from you at this moment is that _I_ cannot be the aggressor again. Not after…" he hesitates and then exhales, beginning again. "Leave Gilbert alone. Alone. You had your fun before. Touch him again and I will annihilate you regardless of any treaties or appearances. Am I _perfectly_ understood?"

The man addressed merely smiles childishly.

"Oh, da. Da. Will make certain no more accidents are happening. Is what this was, da, Kaliningrad?"

At this, Gilbert almost violently twitches and his jaw tightens but he nods.

"Ja," he says through clenched teeth. "All one big accident. It always is."

"Well see that there are no more, Ivan. Do _not_ test me."

Wait. _Ivan_? That means…

"Why would I be doing that, Ludwig? You are being so silly at times."

The blond glares only a moment longer before releasing him and turning to me.

"Fraulein Ellsworth," he begins, an apology forming, but I hold up my hand to stop him.

"It's perfectly alright if you need to postpone your appointment."

"Danke, fraulein," he smiles then sympathetically looks to Gilbert who is staring rather intently at me. "Let's go get you cleaned up, Gilbert…"

"Wait," he red-eyed man suddenly says, glancing between me and Ivan. "He's your next meeting, isn't he?"

My lack of answer is covered by Ivan chirping, "Da~ Am next appointment."

Gilbert's eyes widen, his jaw clenches tighter and he scowls.

"Then Westen und I will go _nowhere_."

"Gilbert, you need—"

"_Nein!_" he interrupts his younger brother, expression stern and dark. "If she is going to be alone in a room with… _him_, we are staying _right_ here. Do _not_ argue with me, Ludwig."

"Ja, Gilbert…"

I blink in shock and confusion.

Over what I am _most_ shocked and confused, I am still undecided.

#1 Ivan Braginski. In general.

#2 Gilbert's sudden adoption of such an assertive tone/persona.

#3 In the last 30 seconds the sibling dynamic had been righted, Gilbert taking charge and Herr Ludwig taking orders.

#4 The situation. In general.

All of this is just so frustrating! I feel as though I'm only catching half of the conversation and the rest is in some secret code that I've not been read in on!

Yet, I've not much time to think before I realize that the three men are now staring at me.

"Well… um… I guess we can start your apartment now then, Mister Braginski…"

"Da! Very good~"

With that, we both walk into the room, he closes the door—I swear I hear a _click_—and he looks to me with a smile.

"Well, pryvet, Gospoja Ellsworth."


End file.
